No Dominion
by inzane73
Summary: After a year of increasingly desperate research, Sam finally accepts that there is no way to break Dean’s deal. But that doesn’t mean he’s giving up.
1. Time Keeps on Slippin’

No Dominion

By Inzane

Disclaimer: I lay no claim to characters of Supernatural--they belong to that evil genius, Eric Kripke. I am making no profit from this story.

The title comes from the poem "And Death Shall Have No Dominion" by Dylan Thomas. Chapter title comes from the song "Fly Like an Eagle" by the Steve Miller Band.

Summary: After a year of increasingly desperate research, Sam finally accepts that there is no way to break Dean's deal. But that doesn't mean he's giving up.

A/N: I'm sure Dean's deal has been done a billion times already, but once a plot bunny grabs hold of me, it won't let go until I write a story to appease it. Any similarities to other SPN fics are purely coincidental, because I haven't had much time to read fanfiction lately, and there is a seriously huge amount of SPN fic out there. It's almost impossible to catch up.

Warning: I have a propensity for bad language, violence, and angst. Expect all three. Spoilers for everything up to and including "Jus in Bello."

There will be portions of this fic that you will have to take with a grain of rock salt. I will invent a bit of my own mythology, take serious liberties with medical procedures, and basically turn reality upside down if I think it will make a good story…while trying to remain true to the characters, of course. If you're looking for a story that was researched as much as a college thesis, then this fic is not for you.

* * *

Chapter 1: Time Keeps on Slippin'

Sam Winchester stared at the second hand on his watch. He knew it was all in his head, but it seemed to be moving faster than usual.

A lot of things seemed to be moving faster than usual these days--hours, minutes, seconds... all steadily picking up speed, rushing them towards Dean's destruction.

Tomorrow night. Tomorrow night, his brother was going to die, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Sam watched the minute hand shift once more, and he could almost hear the sound of the tiny gears inside grind against each other, screaming at him of another minute wasted. Another minute, each and every one of them priceless, but still, he couldn't make himself get out of the car.

_Dean's _car, even though Dean had given him the keys last night while they were at some random bar. His brother had casually pulled the keys from his pocket and placed them on the table in front of him. "Never got around to making a last will and testament," he'd said, and slowly shoved the keys across the table toward Sam. Sam had stared at them in horror, and all he could think was that this was wrong, all of it was so very, very wrong.

"Take good care of her," Dean had said, and Sam had raised his head to protest, but Dean had given him this look--part _take the damn keys _and part _please, I need to give you this_--so Sam had taken the keys and kept his mouth shut.

Then Dean went off with some girl, and Sam was left alone--and, _Jesus_, he understood it now, what that word really meant--holding the keys to the second most important thing in Dean's world. (_Not the most important thing. Sam knew what the most important thing was. Wouldn't be in this mess and wouldn't be about to lose a brother if it weren't for that most important thing_.)

There were two large cups of coffee sitting on the seat beside him in one of those little cardboard carriers, getting cold. Sam was sitting behind the wheel, as he had been for the past ten minutes, watching time tick away.

The driver's seat felt wrong, somehow. It always felt wrong, every time he was in it. Like it was molded to fit Dean. Like it was a part of Dean.

Sam's chest tightened with anxiety. He couldn't stop thinking about Dean and the inevitable. He closed his eyes, but it didn't help, because he would swear that the car even smelled like Dean. Everything about it--_her_--reminded him of his brother.

_If this doesn't work, this car is all I'll have left._

* * *

Sam had never been afraid to face his brother.

He'd done a lot of stupid things throughout his life. As much as their lives had always been the opposite of typical, Sam and Dean had gotten into as much trouble as was typical of boys their age. Maybe a bit more trouble than typical, in Dean's case. Sam had been afraid to face his father, Pastor Jim, even Bobby a time or two, but he'd never been afraid to face Dean.

Until now.

Sam had let Dean sleep late. He told himself that his brother had had a late night and needed the sleep, but it was really because Sam was afraid to tell Dean the plan he had been secretly working on for the past month.

It had been hard to keep it from Dean, not only because he felt bad about hiding things from his brother, but because Dean was damn observant when he wanted to be. Sam suspected that his brother could've practically been a genius if he had ever applied himself, but Dean probably figured there was only room for one geekboy in the family.

Without Dean to rely on, Sam had gone to the only other person in the world he considered family--Bobby. When he'd explained what he had in mind, Bobby had been furious, but Sam had managed to win him over in the end. Bobby began to arrange things behind the scenes so Dean wouldn't find out about The Plan--it had now taken on capital letters in his mind--until it was too late to stop it.

There was only one day left. The Plan was in place, and it was too late for Dean to do anything about it now.

The Plan had to work. It had to, because the alternative was absolutely unacceptable. He would not lose his brother. Not again. He'd been down that road before, thanks to the Trickster, and it was one he never wanted to travel again.

He didn't care how dangerous it was. He was going to save his brother.

Sam gathered his courage, then grabbed the caffeinated peace offering and got out of the car.

It was time to face Dean.

* * *

Someone was poking him.

Dean lay face down on the lumpy mattress, head buried under a pillow that held the familiar and comforting smell of industrial-strength detergent, unable to go back to sleep thanks to the poking. He figured he should probably grab his knife, roll over, and gut the sadistic bastard who was poking him. Only a sadistic bastard would poke a man who'd been out 'til three (because, damn, that chick'd had some stamina) and was currently nursing a hangover the size of... whatever state they happened to be in. He knew it was some sadistic bastard and not Sam, because his brother was not stupid enough to poke an armed man with a hangover the size of...Louisiana? He was pretty sure they were in Louisiana.

Dean mumbled something completely incoherent but that Sam accurately translated as, "Fuck off."

"Dean."

"Go 'way."

"_Dean_."

Dean groaned, pulling the pillow off his head as he rolled over. "God, _what_?" he said, pain mixed with exasperation. "Too early in the mornin'..."

"It's afternoon, Dean."

Dean's eyes shot open, though he immediately had to squint against the painful light that made its way through the crack in the curtains. Damn cheap-ass things wouldn't shut all the way.

"Why didn't you wake me?" Dean asked hoarsely, bringing a hand up to cover his eyes.

He hadn't meant to sleep so late. Waste so much time. Time was a precious gift of which he was in short supply.

Sam could've answered that question with the truth, or with _a _truth. He chose the latter, because he was still working up his courage for the truth.

"'Cause I didn't want to get gutted. Here," he said, smiling slightly as he held out a cup of coffee in one hand and a small bottle of Ibuprofen in the other.

Dean rolled to a sitting position, then took the coffee gratefully, closing his eyes. "You _are_ my favorite brother."

Sam snorted and rolled his eyes, tossing the pill bottle onto the bed beside Dean. Sam moved over to the opposite bed and sat down. His own cup of coffee sat on the nightstand in between the beds, ignored. If Dean had been paying attention, he would've noticed that his brother was radiating tension, but Dean was ignoring him for the moment, too busy concentrating on his caffeine intake.

Sam had his hands fisted in the bedspread so that he wouldn't end up chewing on his fingernails. He kept thinking, _How do I tell him? _Seconds ticked by--treasured seconds--before Sam finally worked up the courage to say something, even if he didn't have the courage to look Dean in the eye. He folded his hands in front of him and leaned forward, carefully examining the pattern in the worn carpet.

"Dean..." he began hesitantly.

Dean's head felt like it was going to fall off, so he wasn't picking up on the Sam-vibes he usually picked up on. He hadn't even opened his eyes since Sam had handed him the coffee. If this had been back in the day, his dad would've torn him a new one--for the hangover and for the lack of attention--but Sam, awesome brother that he was, brought him coffee.

Even if he'd had ten other brothers, Sam still would've been his favorite, and, damn, wasn't he getting sappy in his last days?

All of this meant that Dean hadn't really heard Sam say his name in that needy, little brother tone. Dean sniffed, which was a big mistake because he caught a whiff of himself. His stomach did a slow roll in protest and he grimaced.

"Ugh. I smell worse than Bobby's truck." Dean pushed himself up off the bed, grabbing the bottle of Ibuprofen along the way. He turned and began to shuffle toward the bathroom, taking coffee and pills with him, muttering "Shower," unnecessarily.

Sam's head turned to follow his brother's progress toward the bathroom. He felt a mixture of irritation and relief, leaning more toward relief. Maybe it would be better to let Dean's headache settle down a little before he started dropping bombshells.

* * *

Dean stepped out of the bathroom, feeling a bit better than he had when Sam had woken him up. The hangover was probably down to the size of one of Louisiana's larger counties... parishes? Whatever they called 'em down here. His eyes were a little bloodshot, and he couldn't seem to get them to open all the way, leaving him with a Clint Eastwood-type squint, which worked for Eastwood, but really wasn't working for Dean because, hey, his eyes were one of his best features. Tons of women said so.

As bad as he felt, Sam looked worse.

The past year had been rough on them both. Even though it was Dean that was dying, if you had asked a random stranger to pick out the terminal one between the two of them, that stranger would pick Sam every time. His brother had lost weight, he was entirely too pale, and there were dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. All you had to do was to look into those eyes to see the desperation there.

Three hundred and sixty four days of no answers had taken their toll on his brother. Tomorrow, Sam would be the last of the Winchesters.

Dean knew exactly how he felt.

It was partly because he _knew _that Dean hadn't said much about Sam's decline or increasingly erratic behavior as the time drew near. He knew that nothing he could say would sway Sam from his course, so it was better to just let him be. Some people might've said that he was oblivious to his brother's pain, but Dean knew the truth, and so did Sam, and that was all that mattered.

Dean had quietly done what he could--reminding Sam to eat his food instead of just push it around the plate, shutting off Sam's laptop when he'd stayed up too late researching, helping read through book after dusty book, letting Sam drag his ass halfway across the country and back in search of an answer. Even though it was killing him to see his brother like this, he couldn't tell Sam to give up, because he didn't want to waste his remaining days fighting about it, and, honestly, Dean held on to the slim hope that somehow, Sam would find a way.

But he hadn't. They'd run out of time.

While Dean had been in the shower, Sam had apparently been wearing a path into the cheap carpet. His brother was pacing back and forth, as much as the small room would allow someone that freakishly tall to pace. His mop of hair had fallen into his face, and he was chewing on the side of his thumbnail like he usually did when he was feeling anxious.

When Dean stepped out of the bathroom, Sam froze in place, with a deer-in-the-headlights kind of look on his face. Then there was this series of facial tics and body movements that usually indicated Sam was practically bursting to say something, but for some reason, his brother was reining it in. Which meant it was probably something Dean didn't want to hear.

Dean also figured that there was a high probability that whatever Sam wanted to talk about could lead to a possible chick-flick moment, and even though he was gonna die tomorrow, no way was he resorting to chick-flick moments. He was gonna go out like a man.

"I want pancakes," Dean said firmly, and it was definitely not what Sam was expecting to hear, because he could literally see Sam's brain screech to a halt. His brother did a double take, then furrowed his brows and frowned--disapproval in the vast catalog of Sam-faces.

"It's 1:30, Dean."

Dean gave Sam a look--a don't-make-me-come-over-there-and-kick-your-ass look in the not quite as vast catalog of Dean-faces. (Dean-faces tended to trend toward badass or, if a woman was involved, come hither.)

Sam swallowed hard. Even though he had a couple of inches on his brother, he knew that Dean was fully capable of kicking his ass nine times out of ten, and his brother certainly wouldn't let a little thing like imminent death stop him.

Maybe it would be better if Dean ate something before he told him about the plan. After all, a hungry Dean was a cranky Dean. He might be more receptive (_yeah, right_) on a full stomach. Sam cleared his throat, then shoved his hands deep into his pockets so Dean wouldn't notice the slight tremor in them.

"Pancakes it is."

* * *

Sam practically bumped into Dean in the parking lot. The younger Winchester had been lost in his own thoughts, revising and re-revising how he was going to tell Dean about The Plan.

Dean was standing in front of the car. Just standing there, staring at it. Dean looked a little lost, standing there with his hands in his pockets… and that was when Sam realized the problem.

The keys weren't in Dean's pocket--they were in Sam's. Just another reminder of how close they were to the end.

Sam stood there beside Dean, hands in his own pockets, a mirror of his brother. His right hand closed in a tight fist around the keys to the Impala, as if by holding onto them, he could somehow hold onto Dean.

Sam didn't say anything. He hadn't said much at all lately, because he'd been on the verge of an emotional breakdown for weeks and had been afraid that it would all come pouring out. In front of Dean. Couldn't have that. His brother was the one that was going to Hell; if Dean could hold it together, then so could he.

"Mind if I drive?" Dean asked, never taking his eyes from the car.

Sam pulled the keys out of his pocket and held them out. "It's your car, Dean."

There was a long moment when the keys hung in the air between them. Dean wouldn't take his eyes from the car, because as much as Sam thought Dean was holding it together, he wasn't. Not really. Dean was hanging on by a thread, but he wouldn't let Sam see. He suspected that, deep down, Sam knew, but knowing was different than seeing.

Dean reached out and unerringly grabbed the keys without looking. "Not anymore."

* * *

Dean dug into his pancakes, uncharacteristically silent. Even though his stomach protested, he forced them down. He wasn't really hungry, but stuffing food in his mouth meant that he didn't have to talk. And since he wasn't talking, he could pretend that Sam's whole not-talking thing wasn't bothering him.

Sam was sitting across from him, slumped down in the booth with his shoulders hunched, as if he could somehow make himself a smaller target. His eyes were downcast, staring at the food that he'd been halfheartedly pushing around on his plate for the past five minutes. Sam always got off his food when he was upset.

Dean figured it was guilt. Sam had always been big on guilt. He'd blamed himself for Mom's death, Jessica's... and now this. Of course, Dean had blamed himself for their father's death, but Dean figured that had been completely justified.

Dean frowned at his silent brother, then attacked what was left of his pancakes with renewed vigor. He was not going to feel guilty for making Sam feel guilty about death and Hell and why'd the kid have to go and get himself killed in the first place? Dean was pretty sure that train of thought had made sense, but maybe not, because he still had a bit of a hangover.

He didn't want it to be like this... his last days. He wanted to spend what time he had left with his little brother, be _Sam-and-Dean_ for a little while longer before it became just _Sam_. Sam-and-Dean, and it didn't matter that other people always put Sam first, because that had always been where Dean put him anyway.

Enough of this shit.

"Sam," Dean said sharply.

Sam's head shot up, and there was that look again--anxious and guilty and oh shit all at once. Something was going on, and Dean had a feeling that he wasn't going to like it. But this was not the time or the place. Problem was, there wasn't a lot of time left.

_Time enough_, he told himself, _but not here_. He narrowed his eyes at his brother and said, "Quit angsting all over my pancakes, will ya? You're ruining my appetite, and that is a seriously hard thing to do, dude."

"Sorry," Sam murmured, ducking his head almost guiltily, but Dean caught the flash of relief that had crossed over Sam's face. What the hell was going on with him?

The waitress came to the table with the check and had been about to wish them a nice day, but the words caught in her throat as she picked up on the tension between the two young men. She placed the check on the table in between the two, gave them a quick nod, then backed away and made herself busy elsewhere.

Dean pushed his plate away from him, then glanced at the check. He pulled out his wallet and threw some cash down on the table. He looked up at his brother, but Sam was still tormenting the food on his plate.

Dean sighed. Asking his brother to quit angsting, especially this close to the deadline, was like asking him to quit breathing. Who the hell was going to keep the kid in line once he was gone?

His mouth tightened in a grim line as he forced that thought away. He had to stop thinking about _after_, because there was nothing he could do about _after_, and it made him feel so helpless. Dean did not do helpless.

"Let's go," Dean ordered, giving Sam a light kick under the table to snap him out of his funk. Dean got up and headed for the door. He didn't check to see if his brother was following, but he didn't need to. He could feel the wave of tension Sam was radiating pushing at his back.

* * *

They went back to the motel, not because Dean wanted to spend his last day in a crappy motel room, but because he needed to talk to Sam and there weren't a lot of places where they could speak freely. He could have brought it up in the car, but he didn't want to risk wrecking his baby. Again. Especially when there would be no one left to put her back together.

The motel was a standard hole in the wall. Sam had wanted to spring for something nicer, but Dean had refused. He hadn't wanted to feel out of place his last night on earth. Aside from his car, these rundown motels were the closest thing to home he knew.

As soon as they were in the door, Dean crossed over to the small table and sat down in one of the chairs, crossing his arms over his chest. Sam hesitated just inside the door, hands once again in his pockets and shoulders hunched. When Dean didn't say anything, Sam walked jerkily over to other chair and sat down. He immediately slumped down, doing the smaller target thing again.

They sat in silence for a while, as Sam was busy having an internal battle with his vocal chords. He just couldn't seem to spit out the words he knew Dean wouldn't want to hear.

Dean could see Sam was struggling with something. It was obvious. Sam's one leg kept jittering up and down, and he was beginning to wear a groove into the tabletop with his thumbnail, which he kept nervously rubbing back and forth.

Dean hated to instigate a chick-flick moment, but he couldn't take it anymore.

"Stop it, Sam," Dean snapped.

Sam's head jerked up, and Dean could see the look of guilt on his face. "What?" Sam asked, eyes wide.

"Stop blaming yourself. It was _my_ decision. _My_ choice...," and at this point, Sam had opened his mouth to say something, but Dean angrily jabbed a finger at him, cutting him off, "... and don't you _dare_ tell me it was wrong or stupid or a mistake. I knew what I was doing, and I would do it again in a heartbeat."

Dean pushed himself up of out the chair and crossed to the window. He hadn't wanted to get into an argument. Not now. But, Jesus, he was dying--_dying--_tomorrow, and he would have his death mean something.

He took a couple of deep breaths, hoping to cool the simmering anger inside of him. With his back to Sam and once again in control, Dean's next words were so quiet Sam barely heard them.

"Don't make it something less than it was."

Sam smiled sadly. "I wasn't going to."

Dean stared out between the crack in the curtains to the slice of the world he could see beyond the window. He'd been trying hard not to think about it, but he couldn't stop the image that suddenly popped into his mind. Sam, sitting in the very same room, after everything was done.

Alone. Abandoned.

Dean swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. He turned and leaned back against the window. "We're out of options," he said, stating a fact but really posing a question.

Sam ducked his head and began to fidget again. Dean took this as a confirmation.

"Well…" Dean began, but he had to stop and clear his throat, which was suddenly hoarse with emotion. He moved over to the bed and sat down on the end, leaning forward until his elbows rested on his knees. "I guess this is it, little brother."

"Doesn't have to be," Sam said quietly, still not meeting Dean's eyes.

Dean frowned. "I don't know about you, Sam, but dying and having your soul sent to Hell is pretty much _it _in my book."

Sam flinched slightly, then finally gathered the courage to look up at Dean. There was this look in his eyes, and it immediately made Dean suspicious.

"What aren't you telling me?"

Sam's eyes flicked away, and he shifted nervously in his chair under Dean's scrutiny.

"Sam," Dean said, and the name was a command.

"You're not gonna like it," Sam blurted, and he could've sworn that his vocal chords had been sucked into a time warp, because his voice cracked like he was twelve.

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Does it involve you dying?"

"No."

"Sacrificing virgins?"

"No!" Sam said, and Dean was actually relived that he sounded offended.

"Does it get me out of the deal?"

"Not really," Sam sighed, a pained look on his face that Dean had always thought of as Sam in mental constipation mode.

Dean threw up his hands at Sam's evasiveness. "Why don't you tell me what it's really like, then, or do we have to sit here and play Twenty Questions?"

Sam swallowed hard, and his brows furrowed. "It's not a way out of the deal. More like a way around it."

Sam trailed off, and there was more fidgeting and staring at the floor. Dean rolled his eyes. "Am I gonna have to beat it out of you?" he said through clenched teeth.

Sam raised his eyes to meet Dean's, and, Christ, it was the puppy dog eyes of fuckin' doom. Amazing how they'd never lost their power over him. They kept him from following up on his threat.

Sam knew he had to tell Dean, but he just didn't want to. He didn't want to say the words out loud. Saying it out loud would make it real, and it would be real enough tomorrow night.

The memory of all those months when the Trickster had been fucking with him still haunted Sam. Even though, technically, they had never existed, it had been the most horrific time in his life. Ever since he'd come up with The Plan, he couldn't stop thinking about how it had been when Dean was gone. It had been worse than Jess dying. Worse than Dad. It had been Dean dead, and how the hell am I ever gonna live through that again?

They say that when you are close to death, your life flashes before your eyes. It hadn't really happened to Sam when Jake had stabbed him in the back and he'd been dying in Dean's arms. But now that Dean was so close to death, Sam finally experienced that flashback moment. But it wasn't his own life that flashed before his eyes. It was Dean's.

As he looked at his brother, sitting on the edge of the bed waiting not so patiently for an explanation, Sam flashed through his memories of Dean. He saw him as he first remembered him, freckled and quiet and much too young to be taking care of the little one Sam had been. He saw the nine-year old grown up, walking him to his first day of Kindergarten. He saw the teenager, scaring off the boys that had been bullying his little brother. He saw the hero, standing between the innocent and the things that go bump in the night. He saw his savior, selling something far too precious for words to save the one thing that mattered to him the most.

For Dean, it had always been about saving people--family, friends, people he didn't even know. It was a favor that had seldom been returned to him, and even when it had, Dean always seemed to think the cost was too high. It pissed Sam off to know that when Dean weighed his own life against the lives of others, the scales never tipped in his favor.

Which made what Sam had to say even harder.

"You have to die."

* * *

A/N: I was going to take a break after completing my Dark Angel story "Gone." After ten months and 181,588 words, I think I deserved one. I was gonna kick back, read some fic, catch up on some sleep, but no such luck. I am seriously afraid that I will be too influenced by the new Supernatural episodes coming up (YAY!), so I wanted to at least get the first chapter posted so that I will be committed to the course I have set for this story. One of these days, I will catch up on all of the fanfiction I have been missing. (_And the sleep_.)

I am trying something completely new for me by attempting to remain spoiler-free for the rest of season three. Please do not include spoilers in your comments.


	2. Rage Against

No Dominion

By Inzane

Disclaimer: Don't own it.

Chapter title and quote are from the poem "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" by Dylan Thomas.

Summary: After a year of increasingly desperate research, Sam finally accepts that there is no way to break Dean's deal. But that doesn't mean he's giving up.

A/N: Thank you for all of the kind reviews. They keep my muse alive and kicking.

Warning: Language, mild violence, and angry Winchesters.

* * *

Chapter 2: Rage Against

"Do not go gentle into that good night.  
Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

Dylan Thomas

The only sound in the motel room was the soft whirring of the air conditioning unit as the words Sam had just said bounced around inside Dean's skull. No matter how many times he tried to figure out some possible different meaning for those words, they still came out the same.

"I have to die," Dean replied flatly, as if he expected Sam to tell him that he'd heard it wrong.

"Yeah," Sam replied, a pained expression on his face. He shifted uncomfortably, then added, "And go to Hell."

"Huh." Dean stared blankly as his brain processed the additional information. Then his eyes focused and found Sam's. "I hate to say it, Sammy, but your plan sucks."

Sam looked down at the floor, hands folded. "Told you you wouldn't like it," he said, sounding once again like a twelve-year old.

Dean pushed himself off of the bed and started pacing, retracing the same path Sam had taken earlier.

"What's to like? I die and go to Hell. Which is exactly what I was going to do in the first place. I really don't see how this constitutes a plan, college boy."

Sam's breath caught in his throat, and he paused a moment to regain his composure. "There's more," he said quietly, almost hoping that Dean wouldn't hear.

Dean picked up on the slight tremor in Sam's voice and came to a halt. He turned and pinned his little brother with a glare. "Like, _worse_ more?"

"Umm... that kind of depends on your point of view."

Sam knew what Dean's point of view would be, which was why he had been afraid to tell his brother about the plan in the first place. It was the _more_ part of the plan that Dean wasn't going to like, so much so that Sam was afraid that he wouldn't be able to get Dean to cooperate. This wasn't going to work if Dean didn't cooperate. And it had to work.

It had to.

Dean waited for Sam to go on, but his brother was apparently having trouble getting his brain and his mouth to work in concert. Sam kept making abortive attempts to continue, mouth opening and closing like a landed fish.

"Dude, I haven't seen you this tongue-tied since you tried to ask out Tracy Anderson out in the 9th grade. Just spit it out!"

Sam ducked his head, and Dean could've sworn his brother was blushing. Whether it was from his current inability to form complete sentences or the memory of that rather embarrassing moment in his teen years, Dean couldn't say.

"It was _Stacey Endicott_," Sam muttered, and with that Dean found himself in danger of following up on his earlier threat of an ass kicking, puppy dog eyes be damned.

"_Whatever!_" Dean snapped. "Now, spill!"

"Okay!" Sam snapped back, getting to his feet so he could glare down at Dean, and even now, with events spiraling out of control, he still got a little thrill from the fact that he could glare _down_ at his older brother.

Dean had always been--and, in some ways, was still--larger than life to Sam. When he'd gained those couple of inches on Dean, Sam felt that he could finally measure up to, maybe even surpass, his brother in something.

In Sam's eyes, Dean had always been the perfect son. He was better at fighting, hunting, playing pool, running scams--better at all the things that mattered in the Winchester world. Sometimes, he had tried to hate Dean for it, but he never could.

Sam still remembered the first time they both realized he was taller than Dean. He'd hit a major growth spurt in the 10th grade, and had been steadily creeping toward Dean's height for months. He'd made Dean stand back to back to compare their heights so many times that Dean had finally gotten irritated and refused to do it anymore.

Then things had gotten crazy with a hunt that had taken them two months and across three states, and Sam had sort of forgotten about his burgeoning height. He'd been too busy bitching (and he was grown up enough now to admit that it had been bitching) at Dad for moving them so often that he didn't have time to enroll in school. The most they stayed in one place was a week, ten days tops. Sam had always hated missing school, because he often felt like it was the only place where he could be the person he wanted to be, not the person Dad, and even sometimes Dean, expected him to be.

He'd been so busy hating every moment of that hunt that he'd gotten distracted, and Dean had paid the price. Sam had been engaged in general bitchery, running off at the mouth when he should've been watching what was going on around him. He should've paid for it with his life, but Dean had stood between him and whatever the thing was they had been hunting--Sam couldn't even remember, but it had been something with vicious claws, because it had managed to tackle Dean and put a few holes in him before Sam had realized what was happening. The younger Winchester had shot the thing in the head with consecrated iron shot four times before it died.

Sam had pushed the thing off of Dean and given his brother a hand up. And that had been the moment. Dean--standing there with bleeding gashes in his chest and splattered in monster brains, hanging on to Sam's hand so he wouldn't fall down--had to look _up _while Sam looked _down_. The brothers' eyes locked, and the moment of realization hit them.

Dean's brows had furrowed, and he'd grimaced, either from the pain of his injuries or from the realization--maybe both. Then he'd set his jaw and narrowed his eyes at his bigger-little brother, reluctantly accepting the now undeniable truth. Dean had said, "Don't think this means I can't still kick your ass," before promptly passing out.

Dean had always seemed invulnerable, like some hero in a comic book that could weather horrific danger with barely a scratch. That first moment Sam had realized that he was looking down at his brother instead of up had been something of an epiphany. It was the first time he'd really, truly accepted Dean's mortality.

It wasn't as if Dean hadn't been hurt before. Sam had lost count long ago of how many times his brother had ended up broken and bloody. But before, he'd always accepted that Dean would pull through without a hitch. Before, he'd never had doubts, never a moment of worry.

That moment, when Sam first looked down on a blood-stained Dean instead of up, he realized that his brother was not some untouchable superhero.

Dean was human. And he could die.

Sam closed his eyes and ran a hand over his face, trying to push past the memory. It seemed the closer they got to Dean's expiration date, the more memories would flash through his mind, as if his brain was trying to eulogize a man who was already as good as dead.

Fuck that. Dean would have to die, but Sam was damn well going to make sure he didn't stay that way.

"All right," Sam said, his tone calmer. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, pushing it back from his face. "Just... sit down, okay?" When Dean didn't move, Sam added, "_Please_?" in a tone that held just enough desperation to cause his brother to relent.

"Fine." Dean said, crossing back over to the bed and sitting down on the edge. He felt like he wanted to scream, break things, do something that would ease the tension building inside of him. Instead, he put his hands on his knees, fingers digging in until the knuckles turned white, and said, "Tell me about this plan."

* * *

"Absolutely not!"

"Come on, Dean!" Sam half-yelled, half-pleaded. "You haven't even..."

"NO!"

"Dean..."

They'd been arguing for twenty minutes now, and though he hadn't thought it possible, Sam's desperation had increased with every lost minute. He hadn't even gotten to Dean's part in the scheme of things, except for the whole dying thing. After he'd told Dean what he intended to do, it had basically devolved into a Yes!/No! shouting match, and Sam was no closer to convincing Dean than he had been twenty minutes ago. His brother had a stubborn streak a mile wide, and he'd dug in his heels and would not be moved.

"Forget it, Sam! There's no fucking way I'm letting you do this."

Dean's thoughts were even more frantic than his words. _No. No. Can't do it. I can't let him. I don't wanna die, don't wanna turn into one of them, and, Jesus, I'm scared. Scared shitless, and I'd risk almost anything, any fucking thing, but not this. Not him._

Sam stood toe to toe with his brother, once again looking slightly down and now suddenly wishing that he didn't have to. He found himself wondering how it had come to this--Dean's next to last day and they were on the verge of coming to blows. But then again, he'd known Dean wasn't going to like what he'd had to say, which is why he'd waited until the last minute to tell him.

It was also why he'd asked Dean to sit down first. Sam figured it would give him extra time to brace himself if Dean decided to argue with his fists.

Sam hesitated for a moment, because it was a cold, cold thing he was about to say. But Dean needed to understand that he wasn't being given a choice in the matter.

"How're you gonna stop me, Dean? You'll be dead."

Dean froze, and all hint of emotion fell from his face, transforming it into something Sam had rarely seen aimed at _him_. Sam barely had time to think, _Oh, shit_, before he found himself being slammed into the wall with Dean's forearm barring his throat, applying just enough pressure to let Sam know he meant business.

"I'm not dead yet," Dean said, his voice dropping an octave and deadly dangerous. Inside his head was a different matter. Inside, he was frantic and screaming, danger and terror and _Save Sam_.

Sam wrapped his hand around Dean's wrist and pulled to give himself some extra breathing room. "What're you gonna do? Put me in the hospital? Because that's the only way you're gonna stop me."

Sam saw the determination in Dean's eyes falter for just a second, and there was a hint of pain in those eyes, but then the stubbornness reasserted itself and Dean buried the pain like he always did.

"I'll do what I have to," Dean said, his earlier outburst replaced by quiet determination.

"Like you did what you had to last year?"

The muscles in Dean's jaw clenched a little tighter. "That's right."

"So why is what I'm about to do any different?"

Dean drew his arm slowly away from Sam's throat and took a step back. Why'd Sam have to go and get all logical on him? Damn college education. "It just is," Dean grumbled.

"Why?" Sam asked.

"Because I said so!" Dean snapped back, unable to come up with anything better. As soon as he said it, he knew he was losing ground in the argument, because Sam had never been one to accept that reason in his entire life. It was questions, always questions, with Sam, until he got an answer that he liked.

Sam took a step forward, pressing the advantage while he had it. "You think I wouldn't risk everything for you?"

Dean looked away, feeling a twinge of guilt he knew he shouldn't feel at the hurt on Sam's face. He shouldn't have to feel guilty about protecting his brother.

"I know you would, Sammy," Dean said softly. Those words, and the truth of them, were at the heart of Dean's problem.

"What, then? You think I can't do it?"

"Yes!" Dean blurted, then ran a hand through his hair and sighed, "No. I don't know." How did this get so out of his control? He did trust Sam. He did. But this was beyond crazy. Beyond dingo-ate-my-baby crazy. He shook his head. "But I'm saying you shouldn't. And you're not going to."

"The hell I'm not!"

"It's too dangerous! We could both end up dead! What good would that do anybody? In case you forgot, there's a war on out there!" Dean yelled, angrily pointing a finger toward the window and the world they were destined to save.

"I don't care!"

Dean grabbed ahold of the front of Sam's shirt, wanting to hug him and throttle him at the same time. "Sam, listen..." he began, feeling desperate and not liking it one bit, but Sam's desperation was greater than his own and he was cut off.

"No, Dean!" Sam yelled, grabbing Dean's wrists. "_You _listen! Selling your soul for me was one of the most generous, noble... and selfish things you've ever done. Yes, _selfish_," Sam repeated as Dean opened his mouth to protest. "You know it, and I know it. You saved me for your sake as much as my own. I know exactly how that feels. I don't wanna fight this war alone, man. I don't wanna face another _day _alone. I _can't_." _Not again._ "So it's my turn to be selfish, you got it?" He yanked Dean's hands from his shirt and growled, "_Mine_," through clenched teeth.

"What the hell you boys think you're doin'?"

At the first word, both Winchester's had simultaneously reached for the guns they each had concealed at the small of their backs. In concert, they turned and drew down on the intruder before he could finish his sentence.

Bobby Singer stood in the doorway, looking a bit scruffier than usual and supremely irritated at having two guns pointed at his face.

* * *

"Bobby," Sam and Dean said in unison, standing there with identical shell-shocked looks on their faces.

"Yeah, and you're lucky it's me, ya dumb shits, and not the cops," Bobby scolded gruffly. "You boys were raising enough ruckus, you could hear it across the parking lot!"

Bobby watched as the Winchester brothers slowly lowered their weapons and stared, rendered mute.

The elder hunter ignored the twinge of pain in his heart as he looked at Sam and Dean Winchester, standing together, maybe for the last time. These boys were the closest thing he had to a family--they _were _his family. Hell, like it or not, they'd been his family since the day John Winchester had shown up on his doorstep with a silent, wary little boy and his baby brother.

Sam and Dean had popped in and out of his life, time and again, gaining inches and months, sometimes years, while they were gone. He'd seen them grow from young boys--babies, really--to men, men he was proud to acknowledge that he'd had a hand in bringing up.

Sometimes he wished that he'd never held a gun on John Winchester and told his sorry ass to disappear. It had been a heat-of-the-moment sort of thing, and he'd realized, too late, that when he'd ordered John Winchester to get the hell gone, that would mean Sam and Dean would get the hell gone with him. To this day, he wouldn't admit, even to himself, just how much he'd missed them. They were _his _sons as much as they were John Winchester's. And it was a sad thing to say about a dead man, but Bobby knew that even though he'd only been there for bits and pieces of their lives, he was probably a better father to those boys than John Winchester had ever been.

Not like he'd had any other chances at being a father.

John Winchester may have been a hero. He may have been the one of the smartest, most driven hunters Bobby had ever seen. He may have given his life for his eldest son. But as a parent, John had pretty much sucked ass.

John had loved his sons. This Bobby knew, without a doubt. The problem was, Bobby Singer had always figured that love--real love--was akin to obsession. The way Bobby saw it, a father's love for his children _should _be an obsession--all consuming and all powerful. Unfortunately, there was only room in John Winchester's heart for one obsession. His desire to find the demon that had killed his wife had often supplanted his desire to do what was right for his boys. And, though the outward cause had been something else entirely, it had been this, at the heart of it, that had caused Bobby to threaten to fill John Winchester full of buckshot.

To see them now, these boys that he'd somehow let become his own, so close to unhinged and at each other's throats, was hard to handle. Tomorrow, they were going to lose Dean, maybe Sam too, if this thing didn't work.

This plan… it was absolute insanity. There were too many things that could go wrong. He'd tried to talk Sam out of it as best he could, but he'd known it wouldn't work. Bobby had seen it a year ago with Dean, but working with Sam over the past month, he could see it was the same with the younger Winchester.

They were lost without each other.

Not like Bobby was planning to tell them that. They wouldn't be at each others' throats right now if they didn't already know it.

Instead, he chose to remind them of that little fact the only way he knew how--by chewing out their dumb asses.

"Now, you wanna tell me why you two are 'bout to go at each other like a coupl'a rabid dogs?" Bobby continued, asking a question that he already knew the answer to. His eyes shifted to Sam.

He knew the answer, because he'd been arguing with Sam for the past week about it. One week until the demon came for Dean, and Sam still hadn't told his brother about the plan to save his soul. He knew that as of yesterday afternoon, Sam had still not told Dean, and it looked like the boy had decided to wait until the last minute.

Unless they had been arguing since yesterday, that is… which was entirely possible. After all, they were Winchesters.

* * *

Sam felt the weight of Bobby's gaze, and his expression immediately morphed from shock to guilt. He could see the disapproval in Bobby's eyes, and it heaped hurt on top of everything else he was feeling.

In his rebellious years, Sam had disappointed his father so many times that he'd convinced himself he had no longer cared. He'd always cared about what Bobby thought of him, though. Maybe it was because he'd always thought of Bobby as a kindred spirit, their love of books and research setting them apart from the regular hunting crowd. It threatened the little remaining control he had over his emotions to see Bobby stare disapprovingly at him like that, even if it was deserved.

Dean, however, was too wrapped up in freaking out over Sam's insanely risky solution to his death-and-Hell problem to notice the look that passed between Sam and Bobby.

"Man, I'm glad you're here," Dean said as he reached back to tuck his gun back into his waistband. "Maybe you can talk some sense into my dumbass of a brother," he added, giving Sam a sidelong glance.

Sam bit his lower lip and buried his hands in his pockets, suddenly finding the patterns in the carpet very interesting. Bobby's glare intensified, and this time, Dean did pick up on it. His head swiveled from Bobby to Sam and then back again. The significance of that looked clicked, and Bobby morphed from ally to enemy.

"So, what, you're in on it, too?" Dean asked, brows furrowing.

Anger warred with the hurt of betrayal, and it seriously sucked that it was not an unfamiliar feeling. He'd felt something similar when his dad had whispered those horrible words in his ear at the hospital, before the demon had come to take his soul. When Sam had just up and left and almost ended up getting them both killed by Gordon. When Sam had fucking died on him, and sure, it was kind of harsh to blame the kid for that one, but didn't he know that you don't go and do that to somebody? To Hell--heh, irony--with the fact that he was about to do the same damn thing. He was in no mood for comparisons between then and now.

Bobby's lips twisted down in a frown. Looked like the younger Winchester hadn't gotten very far in telling the older the details of his plan. Knowing Dean, though, he probably hadn't let Sam get too much into the details. As soon as he'd heard enough to understand the risk that Sam would be taking, he'd probably been too busy arguing to listen.

People that had seen Dean with John might've found it hard to believe that Dean even knew how to argue, but when it came to Sam, and, more specifically, Sam's safety, Dean was ten times more bullheaded than his brother. With the two of them dead set on saving each other, it was going be hard to get anything done.

It was a good thing he'd come when he had.

"Look, Dean," Bobby began, a bit haltingly, feeling extremely uncomfortable at being dragged into Winchester family dynamics. It had been different when the boys had been kids, but now that they were men, it was a little awkward. "Sam called me 'bout a month ago with this idea he had. I know it's risky. I tried to talk him out of it, but… well, you know your brother."

"A month ago," Dean said flatly, and his eyes were as emotionless as his voice.

Bobby's eyes flicked to Sam, and he realized that he had once again put his foot in his mouth. What the hell _had_ Sam told Dean?

Dean felt… he really didn't know what he was feeling. All he knew was that he was completely messed up. He'd been trying so hard to hold it together, but that had pretty much crashed and burned when Sam had told him about the goddamn plan, and now Bobby had come in and pissed on the ashes.

You know what? Screw it. He was done.

"Son of a bitch," Dean growled, and headed toward the door. Bobby might try to stop him, but Dean figured he could take him. He wasn't sure what he was going to do once he got past the door, though. After all, he had no car, no money, no future.

No future, but he could make sure Sam had one, and that was exactly what he was going to do.

Before he could reach the door, Sam stepped in front of him, barring the way.

"Get out of my way, Sam."

Sam didn't reply with words. He didn't need to. The casual shift to a defensive posture and the steel determination in his gaze were enough.

"I said move."

Sam didn't budge.

Later, Dean would feel guilty about what he did next. But at that moment, he wasn't thinking, he was feeling--feeling way too much for someone who had always tried to keep those nasty emotions under lock and key.

He pulled his arm back, then let fly with a right cross.

His fist connected with Sam's jaw, whipping his brother's head to the side. Dean pulled back a bit at the last second, but there was still enough on the punch to make it hurt like hell.

Sam never even tried to block. He took the hit, wincing as pain lanced through his jaw. The memory of the last time that Dean had punched him in anger filtered through the pain. His brother had been hurting then as much as he was hurting now, but this time, Sam knew that he was at the root of that pain. Dean felt betrayed--Sam could see it in his eyes. Dean's eyes spoke of broken trust... of faith denied. So he took the punch, because he knew that, this time, he deserved it.

Sam slowly turned his head back to Dean, but the expression in his eyes hadn't changed. Dean's punch could not erase Sam's determination to risk everything for the one person that had given so much--given _everything_--for him.

Bobby took a step forward to intervene, but Dean pointed a finger at him. "Stay out of this, Bobby."

Bobby froze, then took a step back. While he wasn't ready to leave two pissed off, desperate Winchesters alone in a room together, he understood Dean's point. The brothers needed to work this one out on their own.

After that moment, Bobby might as well have been invisible. It all came down to Sam and Dean and a standoff of epic proportion where sheer will alone was the weapon of choice.

And once again, Sam was taken back in time. A collage of memories floated to the surface, of so many staring contests they'd had as children. Sam had always been the one to instigate the game, but Dean was the one who'd always won. It seemed like Dean could just shut down or something, close the shutters on the windows to his soul while his eyes were still open. It got to the point where Sam was almost obsessed, demanding Dean play the game because he was determined that someday, he would beat his older brother. Sam remembered the day he'd finally won the game. He'd been nine. The victory had been tempered by the fact that Sam was pretty sure that Dean had let him win so they could quit having the stupid staring contests.

Didn't look like Dean was going to let him win this time. But Sam wasn't a kid anymore, and this wasn't a game. This was Dean's life.

"You can be angry at me all you want, Dean, but you know why I didn't tell you. _This_," Sam said, gesturing back and forth between them, "is why I didn't tell you. I knew exactly how you were going to react, and no way was I going to give you any time to sabotage this." Dean worked up a look of semi-righteous indignation, but Sam cut it off, "And don't even tell me that you wouldn't have tried it, dude. I _know _you."

Dean felt his anger begin to slip away, and he wanted to hold onto it, because anger was better than fear. Anger was so much better than being scared out of your goddamn mind. But he couldn't do it. He had about twenty hours left--_God_--and there was no point in arguing when he knew he wouldn't win. Sam had made up his mind. His little brother was going to do this with or without his cooperation. It would be easier to cooperate, but, _Christ_, he was so fucking scared.

Dean's mask slipped, and the shutters on his eyes were open wide, soul shining through, bare and unprotected, for Sam to see.

"You think you can trust these people?" Dean asked, his voice gruff with emotion.

Sam suddenly felt boneless as relief overtook him, and he grabbed Dean's arm when he felt himself sway a bit.

Dean had conceded the battle. He'd let Sam win.

"We have to," Sam whispered, closing his eyes for a brief moment when they began to sting with threatening tears.

"It's too risky," Dean said half-heartedly, feeling that he had to make one last ditch effort to stop this insanity.

Sam opened his eyes, and Sam's eyes, which he had never been able to shutter in his life, spoke volumes. They always had.

"It's all we've got."

"_Sam_."

That one broken, whispered word from Dean held all his worry, all his love, all his fear. It was a plea and a cry for help and a flag waved in surrender. It was the sign of a man that discovered he still had something left to lose.

"We are doing this, Dean." Sam said quietly, knowing the battle was already won.

There was a long moment of silence, the soft whirring of the air conditioning unit once again reigning supreme. Then Dean closed his eyes and sighed. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam could see Bobby visibly relax.

When Dean opened his eyes, they held the tired look of a man that had fought the good fight and found that he just wasn't good enough.

"What do I need to do?" Dean asked, and he wondered if he was making a mistake.

* * *

They went over the plan. Over and over and over.

"Enough," Dean huffed, falling back onto the bed.

Sam sat on the floor, surrounded by various printouts and books cracked open to important pages. He shook his head at Dean's declaration, not bothering to look up from the research around him. "We need to go over it again," he said absently, not really paying attention to Dean's complaint.

Dean groaned, reaching up to tug at his short, spiky hair. "I feel like my head's gonna fall off, man."

Bobby, who was seated at the small table in the room, shifted with the discomfort of a man too long in one position. "I gotta go with Dean on this one, Sam."

Sam looked up, about to protest, but he caught sight of his brother, lying on the bed with his head in his hands. His brother, who was going to die tomorrow. They really should go over it one more time, but making his brother miserable wasn't really what he wanted to do with what time they had left.

Dean sat up, then raised his eyebrows at Sam. "Besides, my part's not that complicated, anyway."

Sam's face crumpled as he was reminded of Dean's part--the most simplistic part--of the plan. He'd been so busy worrying about the rest, he had almost let himself forget what he had asked of Dean.

_Die and go to Hell. Die and go to Hell. Die and go to Hell._

"I wish there was another way," Sam said hoarsely, feeling his red-rimmed eyes begin to sting once more.

Dean slid off of the bed and crouched beside his brother, careful to avoid any of Sam's precious research. He clapped Sam fondly on the shoulder. "Never really thought I'd live to see thirty, anyway."

Sam's eyes flicked to his, and the hurt in his eyes made Dean wish he would've kept that thought to himself. Dean also saw that by interrupting his brother's research groove, he'd interrupted the very thing that was keeping Sam's fear at bay. But Dean knew of better ways they could do that.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean pleaded, doing his best imitation of the patented Sam Winchester puppy dog eyes. "This is my last night. I don't wanna spend my last night pouring over notes and moldy books."

Sam ducked his head, feeling guilty for burning up Dean's little remaining time, even though he knew it was necessary. "I guess we could use a break."

"_Awesome_."

Dean smiled, one thousand watts of pure Dean Winchester charm, and it caused a weird tightness in Sam's chest. He hadn't seen his brother smile like that in a long time.

Dean stood and held out his hand. Sam took a deep breath, then blew it out in a rush and took his brother's hand. Dean pulled Sam to his feet, then turned to look at Bobby.

"You comin'?"

Bobby looked at the boys that had somewhere along the line become his boys. Both exhausted and scared to death, but holding on to a glimmer of hope.

This was their time, not his.

"Nah," Bobby said, shaking his head, "you two go on. I'm too old to keep up with you boys."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "You sure?"

Bobby scowled to cover the smile that threatened to break free. That wouldn't do his reputation any good. "Go on. Git."

Both Winchesters nodded, then turned to walk out, both grabbing their previously abandoned guns and concealing them in moves that were second nature. As they approached the Impala, Sam turned to look at Dean and warily asked, "So what're we doin'?" He was almost afraid of the answer, envisioning strip clubs and hard liquor, the latter of which would turn him into a complete, possibly karaoke-singing idiot in less than three drinks.

"Sammy," Dean said, wrapping his arm around Sam's shoulders and pretending that it wasn't a stretch, "tonight, we're gonna eat, drink, and be merry, 'cause tomorrow… well... you know."

Sam rolled his eyes and groaned.

Dean shook his head, having the decency to look chagrined. "Yeah, okay, that was bad."

* * *

A/N: I know there wasn't a lot going on in this chapter, but I hope you will bear with me for the moment. I needed to set the stage. And I also needed to have an angry Winchester moment, because, you know, who doesn't love angry Winchesters?

I am seriously, _seriously_, trying not to change the plot of my story based on details from the last four episodes. That said, I will be AU from the point of Jus in Bello. Please ignore anything that happened/will happen in these four episodes in relation to this story.


	3. The Dying of the Light

No Dominion

By Inzane

Disclaimer: The Crossroads Demon was not interested in making a deal for Sam and Dean. Bummer.

Chapter title is from the poem "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" by Dylan Thomas.

Summary: After a year of increasingly desperate research, Sam finally accepts that there is no way to break Dean's deal. But that doesn't mean he's giving up.

A/N: Please remember that this story is AU after the end of Jus in Bello.

Warning: Language, and the death of Dean Winchester. (What? You knew it was coming.)

* * *

Chapter 3: The Dying of the Light

"Make sure it's extra thick. I don't want to risk anything getting through."

Dean's words echoed inside the abandoned warehouse, ground zero for the evening's festivities. Sam nodded at Dean's admonition as he continued to pour the salt line. He didn't reply in words, because he was too busy biting his bottom lip. He didn't look up, because every time he looked at Dean, he felt his control slip just a little bit more. He needed to be at the top of his game tonight. Both of their lives were at stake.

As Sam made his way around the forming salt circle, he let his mind wander back to last night. It hadn't really been what he'd expected. He'd expected girls and food and liquor and more girls. He'd expected Dean to wander off with some well-endowed woman like he had the previous night, leaving Sam alone to wallow in his beer. But that hadn't happened, and Sam almost felt guilty for thinking that it would. He should've known better. As much as Dean loved girls and food and drinking, there was one thing that Dean loved above all else.

Family.

They'd gone to a bar, all right, but it hadn't been a seedy pool hall or some dive where the women outnumbered the men three to one. They'd ended up at a jazz club--nothing too fancy, but miles above Dean's preferred type of hangout. Instead of doing shots at the bar, they'd ended up with a pitcher of beer at a table in the corner, far enough from the main crowd that they could talk without worrying about what the random passerby would hear.

And that's what they did, all night. Talk.

Their night was full of remember whens. They talked about the early days, before Dad's search for what had killed their mom had become a full-fledged obsession. Back when, for a very short period of time, they'd been allowed to be kids. Sam didn't really remember that much, because he'd still been pretty young. But where Sam couldn't remember, Dean filled in the blanks.

They talked about Dad, glossing over the rough spots to focus on the few good times they'd had with the man. The talked about growing up, again leaving bad memories rest undisturbed. They relived the funniest moments, the most embarrassing, the most exciting. They laughed, and though neither Winchester would admit it, they shed a few manly tears.

Every memory they brought up always involved the two of them. They didn't dwell on the years they had been separated while Sam was at Stanford. There was no point in it.

It hurt Sam to think of the time he had lost with his brother, but he would not regret it. He had learned to forgive himself for wanting to live his own life, his way. It was a step that he'd needed to take. That time apart from his family had helped Sam realize that he was strong enough to stand on his own. The time he'd spent over the past three years traveling with Dean had helped him understand that he didn't need to stand on his own, and, more importantly, he didn't want to.

Although it had hurt Dean when Sam had left, he knew that Sam had never meant to hurt him, and that there was nothing there he needed to forgive. He'd told Sam the truth when he'd said he was proud of him for being able to break free. He'd occasionally felt a twinge of regret that he hadn't been able to do the same, but he'd never looked back at his life and wished for something else. Dean had never been one to dwell too much on what could have been. He was a hunter. He knew, deep in his bones, it was what he was meant to do.

Saving people. Hunting things. The family business.

As a saxophone played smoothly in the background, Sam and Dean Winchester had sifted through the memories of a lifetime.

They'd rolled into the motel room around 4:00 AM--a mildly buzzed Sam and a virtually unaffected Dean. Bobby was gone, but he'd left a note on the table telling them that he'd gotten a room three doors down. The Winchesters had barely noted it before shuffling over to their beds, kicking off boots and jeans along the way.

Sam and Dean had tumbled into their respective beds almost in unison. Dean reached under his pillow to wrap his hand around the hilt of his knife, the immediate comfort of it instantly lulling him to sleep. When Sam heard the soft buzz of Dean's snores coming from the other bed, he reached down in between the mattress and box spring of his own bed to find the knife that Dean had bought for him months ago. He slowly pulled the knife from his hiding spot, glancing at it for a moment before he slid it under his own pillow. With one last look at Dean, Sam had sighed and closed his eyes.

They hadn't said goodnight. It was too close to goodbye.

Bobby had woken them up the next day around noon, and since then, they'd been preparing to engage in the riskiest, most dangerous thing any of them had ever done in their lives.

When the last grain emptied out of Sam's large container of salt, he straightened, surveying his lines of defense.

Dean sure believed in going overboard.

At first, Dean hadn't wanted Sam to be there. It was an unnecessary risk, he'd said. There was no real reason for Sam to be there, he'd said, really meaning that he didn't want Sam to have to watch him die. Dean had been in the position Sam was about to be in, and he wouldn't wish it on his little brother for the world... or the deed to his own soul.

Sam didn't care for Dean's reasons, spoken or unspoken. He would not let his brother die alone.

Because Sam refused to make himself scarce, Dean insisted on taking extra precautions. Lots of them.

Sam stood inside the circle of salt he had just finished laying. The circle of salt was ringed by a circle of goofer duster. These two rings were surrounded by a ragged ring of Hellhound-repelling Devil's Shoestring. All three of these were surrounded by a ring of Devil's Traps sketched in bright orange spray paint, alternating in depth and spaced so that you could not gain entrance to the inner rings without stepping into one.

When Sam had balked at the excessive protections, Dean had just glared at him and said firmly, "You can't save me if you're dead."

Dean joined Sam inside the circle, careful not to disturb any of the precious protections. Sam glanced at his brother, marveling at how calm he looked. Ten minutes. Ten minutes and then Dean was dead, his soul sucked into Hell, but he was as calm as if tonight's events consisted of nothing more than a standard salt-and-burn.

_Quit thinking about it_, Sam mentally chided himself. That moment would come soon enough.

Sam looked back down at his defenses and shook his head, smiling wryly. "Dude, I feel like I'm inside a metaphysical Fort Knox."

Dean moved to stand in front of Sam, then poked a finger in the center of his brother's chest. "Just consider yourself lucky that you're standing here and not parking your ass in the car, handcuffed to the steering wheel."

Sam's smile widened a bit. Handcuffs wouldn't stop Sam for more than ten seconds, and they both knew it. But Sam raised his hands in surrender and said, "Duly noted."

They fell silent, and it was an awkward silence that had rarely ever occurred between the two of them. What the hell do you say to your brother who was about to die because he was unwilling to let you do the same? There was no saying goodbye, because neither of them wanted to admit this was the end. There was no outpouring of emotion, because they weren't girls; they were men, and Winchesters at that. Sam may have been a bit more emotional than his brother, but even he knew where to draw the line. Everything that needed to be said had been said last night. The expression of brotherly love, though left unspoken, was understood. There was nothing left to fill the silence but the steady drip coming a leaky pipe somewhere off to the right, its constant beat taking over the countdown until Dean's demise.

Shockingly, it was Dean who broke the silence. He cleared his throat and focused on the ring around him instead of the steadily increasing beat of his heart. He'd been pretty good at holding it together since he'd agreed to Sam's plan. There was still a chance that he could make it out of this thing, and though it was a slim chance, Dean had always been a betting man. But death was death, and no matter the chances, it was no laughing matter.

"Sam," he said, his voice deep as he fought to keep it level, "whatever you do, stay inside the circle. No matter what."

"But…" Sam began to protest, but Dean cut him off. He raised his head and locked his eyes with Sam's. "No matter what," he repeated firmly.

Sam opened his mouth to say something, but then shut it, clenching his jaw tight. He took deep breaths through his nose as he tried not to envision what was about to happen to Dean. He jaw muscles didn't seem to want to unclench to allow him a response, so he simply nodded, but this didn't satisfy Dean.

"Promise me," Dean commanded, radiating with fiery intensity.

Sam swallowed hard. He managed to loosen his jaw enough to whisper a harsh, "Promise."

At Sam's whispered word, Dean seemed to relax a bit. His brother was protected for now. As for what came later, he wouldn't think on that. There was nothing he could do about it, anyway. Like Sam had said, he'd be dead.

Dean glanced at his watch. Two and a half minutes left. Only time for one more thing. He reached behind his neck and grabbed hold of the leather cord holding his amulet. He pulled the necklace over his head, reached down to grab Sam's hand, then placed the amulet on his brother's open palm.

"Hold onto this for me."

"_Dean_," Sam pleaded, the tears he had been holding at bay all day threatening to spill over.

Dean heard Sam's plea, but he understood what Sam had really meant to say.

_I can get you out of this. Don't give up on me. Please, don't give up on me._

The corner of Dean's lips quirked into a crooked smile. He said, "You can give it back to me when this is all over," but Sam understood what Dean really meant.

_I trust you, Sammy._

Sam clenched his fist around the amulet, its edges digging into his palm with welcome pain. He hesitated for a moment, but when Dean started to move to take up his position, Sam reached forward and grabbed his brother, gathering him into a bone-crushing hug.

There hadn't been a lot of hugs in the Winchester world. Hugs landed solidly in the realm of chick-flick moments, and Dean had been adept at avoiding chick-flick moments since he was a kid. In the world of the grown-up Winchesters, hugs were usually the result of a life-or-death situation--usually death. Even then, usually one of them held back.

Not this time.

Dean returned Sam's embrace in kind, hanging on tight and closing his eyes when he felt his own tears threatening. He would not cry. He would _not_ cry. Rule number one in Dean Winchester's book--do not cry. He'd broken that rule enough times since their dad died. He wasn't going to break it now, at the end.

The moment was broken by the beeping sound of an alarm coming from Dean's phone. He had set the alarm to go off at one minute to midnight.

Sam gave Dean a final squeeze before pulling away. His eyes were bleak as he took one last look at his brother's face. Without breaking eye contact, he reached up and put Dean's amulet around his own neck.

Dean gave a slight nod of approval. He took a shaky breath and tried to smile, but could only manage a weak grimace.

"Showtime," Dean whispered, and the word floated throughout the empty building.

* * *

Dean moved away from Sam, taking up his position in his own circle of salt, goofer dust, and Devil's Shoestring a couple of feet away from Sam's circle of protection. Dean's circle was not meant to protect him from what was coming. It was more of a delaying tactic. Both Sam and Dean figured that the demon holding his contract would show up in person (if you could refer to a demon as a person) to collect. It was a pretty big assumption, one that was pivotal to the plan.

If the demon didn't show up, but sent Hellhounds instead, they needed to be able to keep the things at bay long enough to get the demon's attention. In order for what Sam had in mind to work, Dean needed to be in one piece. Getting ripped to shreds by Hellhounds would put a serious kink in the plan, so they made a circle of protection for Dean just in case.

As the time on Sam and Dean's synchronized watches flipped to 12:00, a figure walked out of the darkness.

Sam's mouth dropped open, eyes widening in surprise. "Ruby? What're you doing here?" He almost stepped out of his circle, but then caught himself when Dean snapped his head around and glared at him. "Did you find a way out of this? Can you help Dean?" Sam asked hopefully, desperately wishing for an option that didn't involve the death of his brother.

Ruby ignored Sam, slinking slowly across the room until she came to stand a foot outside of Dean's circle. She smiled smugly, then tilted her head to the side and purred, "Hey, Dean."

Dean caught the look of utter confusion Sam's face and sighed wearily. Sam had always been far too trusting, unwilling to revoke trust once it was given.

Dean turned back to face Ruby. "Don't you get it, Sam? _Ruby's _the demon. The one that holds my contract."

Sam felt like his brain had liquefied and leaked out of his ears. He suddenly had trouble keeping up. "What? No. That can't be right. She was helping us. She…"

"She's been playing us, Sam." Dean interrupted, the anger at his voice directed not at his brother, but at himself. He had allowed himself to be swayed by Sam's trust in Ruby, so far that he had bought into her bullshit, and all this time, she'd been playing them.

"But…" Sam said and trailed off, his voice still tinged with disbelief. He didn't _want_ to believe it.

"Come on, Sam. Don't tell me you trusted a _demon_," Ruby said, her tone mocking as she batted her eyelashes at him.

"But… but…," Sam stammered, "the Colt? The hex bags to hide us from Lilith?"

Ruby gave a little eye roll. "You mean the Colt that didn't really kill anything but minor demons? That Colt?"

"Son of a bitch," Dean muttered. She'd never really fixed the gun. Not completely.

"And the hex bags," Ruby continued, glancing at Dean,"they made it harder for me to keep an eye on you two, but they served their purpose. Couldn't have Lilith or her crew poaching on my territory, now could I?"

"So that's what this is all about?" Dean asked. "A demon power struggle? You've been making a play for top demon dog?"

"You know, Dean, you're not as dumb as you look," Ruby snarked, eyeing Dean as she folded her arms over her chest.

"Shit," Sam whispered, feeling his knees threaten to buckle. "Shit, shit, shit."

"Not your usual witty repartee, Sam," Ruby said, "but given the circumstances, I'll let you slide on that one."

Ruby began to slowly walk around Dean's circle, eyeing the rings of protection that surrounded him. "I've really got to hand it to you boys. You did a great job at evening out the odds for me. All I had to do was point you in the direction of a member of Lilith's demon horde, and you were raring to go, whipping out exorcisms left and right. Taking out the lesser demons with the Colt. It was like you were my own personal attack dogs. Saved me a lot of trouble. I don't think I ever thanked you for that."

Dean's eyes were daggers. "Don't mention it. I mean, really, don't mention it at all," he said sourly.

Not only had the bought into Ruby's bullshit, but they had helped her jockey to a better position in the demon power-struggle that had been going on behind the scenes. He had listened to her, believed her. Against his own better judgment, he'd believed her.

He'd believed her.

Dean's eyes widened. "Was it all bullshit, then?" he asked, knowing that Ruby would know what he was talking about. The thing he most feared about Hell.

Becoming a demon.

Ruby didn't answer with words. She just smiled wickedly, and in that smile was his answer.

"Fuck," Dean whispered, closing his eyes for a moment.

It was a lie. All a lie. Ruby had never been human. She was a demon, and she had always been a demon. That goddamn woe-is-me, pity-the-poor-little-unwilling-demon sob story was a crock. But he'd bought it, hook, line, and fucking sinker.

Stupid.

Ruby laughed at Dean, as if she could read his thoughts.

"But…" Sam stammered, his voice finally returning to him after he had been struck dumb by Ruby's revelations, "the spell at the police station? You were going to sacrifice yourself."

Ruby shook her head as if to say, _poor, foolish boy_. "Do you really think I would be stupid enough to give you a spell that would kill me?"

Sam's mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out. He had been stupid enough. "Then why…?" he managed ask, so confused and scared and angry that he didn't know which way was up.

"I just wanted to see if you would actually do it. Kill an innocent. I wanted to see you tarnish that bright, shiny soul. And you know what? I think you would have, if Dean hadn't talked you out of it."

Sam swallowed hard and glanced at Dean, afraid that maybe, just maybe, Ruby was right.

Ruby turned her focus back to Dean. Her lashes lowered as she glanced down at the ring around Dean. "You trying to break the deal?" she asked, her tone casually threatening and almost hopeful. "'Cause if you are, I have to tell you, that's a seriously half-assed way to go about it."

"No," Dean said, unable to come up with any of his own witty repartee. His brain was still reeling a bit from the fact that Ruby had held his contract all along. Ruby, who he could've killed a dozen times by now.

_Son of a fucking demon bitch!_

Ruby's eyes slowly rolled back to Sam, taking in the massive protection surrounding the younger Winchester. There was a distinct hunger in her gaze, one that she had kept well hidden during their previously dealings.

"What's _he_ doing here, anyway?" Ruby asked, staring at Sam in a way that made him feel like the main course at an all-you-can-eat buffet.

"Just seeing me off," Dean said casually, and he was amazed at how normal his voice sounded, because inside, he was seriously freaking out.

Dean saw the way that Ruby was looking at Sam--a raw, possessive hunger that suggested that Dean's wasn't really the soul that she craved.

No way was Dean going to let her have what she really wanted.

"I die, you get my soul, Sam lives. That was the deal. _You_ gonna break the deal?"

Ruby turned back to Dean, and that predatory look was gone, replaced by mild annoyance. "No." She paused dramatically for a moment, then closed her eyes and whispered an archaic word in some language that Dean had never heard.

A howl pierced through the silence of the warehouse, seeming to come from everywhere at once. Behind Ruby, the darkness began to coalesce, shadows gathering and moving until two Hellhounds stepped out of the darkness to flank Ruby. They seemed to be _made_ of darkness--living, breathing shadows with an appetite for destruction.

Sam took a step forward, instinctively moving to aid his brother. He wondered for a moment why he could see the Hellhounds, but then figured maybe the connection he had with Dean let him see what he normally would not.

At Sam's movement, Ruby's attention shifted to Sam, the features of the skin she wore transformed by a burning anticipation. Lilith wasn't the only one that wanted Sam's intestines on a stick.

Sam's left foot fell just inside the salt line, and he was about to take another step, ready to abandon his metaphysical fortress, when Dean's voice stopped him.

"_Samuel_."

Sam froze at the word and the command it held. Dean had called him Samuel. Dean never called him Samuel. Ever. No matter the transgression, no matter the seriousness of the situation, Dean had never used his full given name. Not in his entire twenty five years of existence could Sam remember a single time when Dean had called him anything but Sam or Sammy.

Sam took a step back, returning to the center of his ring of protection. His heart was pounding so fast that he began to feel a little lightheaded. He'd thought he could do this. Thought he could be there for Dean at the end, that he could deal with what had to happen, but now that the moment was here, he was afraid that he wasn't up to the task. How could he just stand there and watch Dean die? Stand there and do nothing?

He had to. To save Dean, he had to let him die. It was the only way.

Sam's hands clenched into fists, and his entire body was rigid. He swallowed against the bitter taste in his mouth and forced himself to remain where he was. Forced himself to keep his promise to Dean.

"I've been looking forward to this for a long time, Dean," Ruby said, moving to stand directly in front of Dean. "I mean, taking a Winchester soul? That's some pretty serious street cred among the free range demons out there. It won't be long before I can take on Lilith, head to head. That is, after I dispose of little Sammy, there. It will be so much easier to take down the final Winchester after you're gone. Without you, Sam's nothing."

"You can't have him," Dean growled.

"I can't have him _now_," Ruby said, leaning forward to bring her face closer to Dean's. "But I _will_ have him. After you're gone, there will be nothing left to stop me. No binding contracts, no big brother body guard. Nothing."

Dean felt his muscles pull at him, trying to get him to reach for his gun, knife, anything that could take this bitch out. He resisted the pull, because he knew that nothing he had could take Ruby down. He had to stick to Sam's plan. It was the only way.

Dean deliberately stepped out of his protective circle, causing Ruby to straighten as he closed the distance between them. "Enough talking, bitch. Let's finish this."

Sam made an unintelligible noise in the back of his throat--half whimper, half choked scream.

Ruby's smile widened until they could see all of the perfect teeth in her highjacked body. "A man after my own black heart."

Ruby began to back away from Dean, and the Hellhounds moved back as well, maintaining their flanking positions around their master. There was a strange rushing noise, like they were caught in a wind tunnel, but there was no wind. Then both Winchester's eyes widened in shock as the demon _stepped out_ of Ruby.

Black smoke seemed to ooze from Ruby's pores, moving out and away from her body to form a roiling mass in front of the woman that had once held it. As the last wisp of smoke broke free, Ruby's body collapsed in an unnatural boneless heap on the ground, suggesting that there wasn't much inside of the once woman that hadn't been broken.

The mass of smoke moved toward Dean, slowly coalescing as it moved into a humanoid form. The form, strangely genderless, seemed to be sucking in all of the light around it, like a walking black hole. It almost hurt the eyes to look at it, as if the brain couldn't understand what it was seeing.

The demon's face--or its approximation of a face--twisted into an evil smile.

"Do you think I need that pathetic meat to walk this earth?" the demon--they could no longer think of it as Ruby--asked. Its voice was strange, as if it was made up of a bunch of people taking in perfect unison. "I am…"

"…more powerful than we can possibly imagine?" Dean interrupted, forcing himself to smirk nonchalantly, as if this entire thing wasn't freaking him the hell out.

"Make jokes now," the demon said, its black eyes glowing with a dark light that didn't seem like it should be possible. "We'll see who's laughing when you're in Hell. There are a lot of... old friends waiting for you."

The demon made a subtle movement with its hands, and the two Hellhounds, who had been handing back by the abandoned body of Ruby, leapt to land on either side of the demon, snarling and snapping their teeth.

Dean found it very hard not to take a step backwards into that protective circle, but he held his ground. He risked a quick glance at Sam, who looked about ready to break at any moment. Dean gave him a quick wink, then turned back to the demon.

"Take him," commanded the demon softly, and the pair of Hellhounds sank low to the ground, gathering to pounce.

"Uh uh," Dean said, holding out a hand in a stopping gesture. "The deal was for my soul, not my body."

The demon froze, and it actually appeared to do a double take. Cool. Looked like it hadn't thought of that one. This thing just might work after all.

"You only get the soul," Dean insisted, hoping that demon contracts were as particular about the details as human ones.

Apparently, they were. For once, Dean was glad that Sam had wanted to be a lawyer instead of a hunter.

The demon's face morphed into a look of complete rage before it regained control of itself and put an unaffected, slightly bored look. "What use will you have for that body without your soul?"

"That doesn't really matter, does it?" Sam chimed in. "What matters is that you made a deal for Dean's soul, and nothing else. You destroy his body, it's a deal breaker. See what happens to your street cred if you welsh on the deal."

The demon snarled and surged toward Dean. Dean didn't move a muscle, didn't flinch. It would've been nice to say it was because Dean was a complete badass, but the reality was that he was so scared, he couldn't move. If the demon ripped him to shreds, it was all over.

"Your body cannot live without a soul to fill it!" the demon screamed, the words filling the empty warehouse, bounding off the walls until it seemed as if nothing existed but that multilayered voice. "It will be nothing but an empty shell!"

"That's my problem, isn't it?" Dean said, focusing on his breathing to keep himself from passing out. After all, the scariest demon he'd ever come across was inches from his face and about to take his soul. He figured he was doing a good job in the whole maintaining-his-cool department.

The demon glanced at Sam, eyes burning with hatred, as if it knew that this had been all Sam's idea. Then it turned back to Dean and backed away a little bit.

"Very well," it said. "I'll take your soul and leave your empty carcass for your brother to weep over."

Dean nodded, and he felt his heart skip a beat, then another. This was it.

"Okay, then," he said gruffly. "I'm ready to pay up."

The demon smiled, black teeth in a black face. Dean felt his heart completely stop.

"This is going to hurt," the demon said, its voice lowering by a full octave, vibrating in Dean's bones.

The thing's black hand shot forward, burying itself in Dean's chest. Sam and Dean both gasped in unison, and Dean jerked from the shock.

There was no blood. Dean's body, as promised, was left untouched. It was Dean's soul the demon was after.

The demon twisted its hand, then began to pull. Slowly.

Dean tried not to scream. He really tried. But he failed, miserably.

Sam fell to his knees, eyes welling up with tears. Dean's screams echoed all around him. He wanted to look away, wanted to cover his ears and make it all stop, but he couldn't do it. He couldn't do that to Dean. His brother had given up his life, his soul, to save him, and Sam would not deny that gift turning away now.

The screaming stopped, and Dean's eyes rolled up into his head. His body began to shake. As the demon's hand came out of Dean's chest, a ghostly image came with it, writhing around the hand that held it.

Dean's soul.

Dean's body collapsed, deprived of the soul that had given it true life. The thud his body made as it hit the ground was the most sickening sound Sam had heard in his life.

The demon looked down at the prize in its hand. "Feisty one, aren't you? Better put you somewhere for safe keeping until I can send you into Hell."

The demon's black, glowing eyes turned to Sam. Then its lips turned down in a horrifying grimace as it began to _squeeze_.

Dean's soul writhed frantically, but it could not stand under whatever the demon was doing to it. The ghostly form began to shrink, collapsing in on itself until it became a bright, shining star. So bright that Sam had to hold a hand up in front of his eyes to keep the light from blinding him.

"Amazing, isn't it," the demon asked, "how such bruised and battered soul can burn so bright."

The demons eyes flashed with that incongruous blackness, then it opened its mouth, unnaturally wide. It brought the shining star that had once been Dean up to its lips and slowly lowered it into its mouth.

Sam had to blink the spots from his eyes at the sudden darkness that overtook the room. But he could see enough to see the demon give an exaggerated swallow. It licked its lips and stared at Sam with those blank, black eyes.

"Yum."

Sam's body was vibrating with anger. He wanted to kill it. Kill that fucking thing that had dared to take his brother. But he didn't. He kept hearing Dean's voice echoing in his head, two simple words, over and over.

_Promise me._

A choked sob escaped form Sam's throat and he collapsed forward, bending until his forehead touched the cold concrete. He clamped his jaw down tight around the sob. He had a job to do. _Dean's dead._ _Dean's dead_, but, Christ, he had a job to do.

Sam could see the demon and its Hellhounds approach his fortress out of the corner of his eye. Sam didn't raise his head, focusing instead on the feel of the cold, hard ground pressing against his skin.

"See you soon," the demon whispered.

Sam turned his head to the side, enough to see what happened next. The demon stepped backwards, and as it moved, it began to dissipate into black smoke. It faded away into the darkness. The Hellhounds gave a final snarl, then disappeared into the darkness after their master.

A harsh laugh burst from Sam's lips. He was losing it. Cracking up. He lifted his head slightly, then let it smack back down on the concrete. The pain brought him back to himself.

He had work to do.

Sam's heart beat once, twice, and then pushed himself up. His body felt leaden, and he stumbled to his feet. He made his way over to Dean's body--_dead, oh God, dead_--and fell to his knees.

"Dean," he gasped as he gathered Dean's body into his arms. His brother could've been sleeping. Dean's body, as promised, had been left untouched. Sam reached up to place his fingers on Dean's neck, searching for a heartbeat, but there was none.

Sam slammed his eyes shut, but not before a single tear escaped down his cheek.

He'd been in this position before. So many times.

This time, it was different. It had been his idea.

Sam heard his father's voice in his head, though the thoughts were surely his own.

_You just stood there. Just stood there and watched him die. You let your brother die._

"_Dean_," Sam sobbed.

Sam pulled the body of his dead brother closer to him. Dean's eyes were open and staring, deprived of the spark that had given them so much life. Deprived of _Dean_.

He wasn't holding Dean. He was holding an empty shell. A husk.

Dean was gone. Dean was in Hell.

Sam threw back his head, sucked in a deep breath, and screamed, putting all of his anger and agony into one great exhalation of pain.

The scream echoed in the open space, but there was no one to hear it. The empty darkness was the only witness to Sam's pain.

* * *

A/N: Evil. Yes, I know.


	4. Crisis of Faith

No Dominion

By Inzane

Disclaimer: I do not own the Winchester boys or Bobby Singer.

Summary: After a year of increasingly desperate research, Sam finally accepts that there is no way to break Dean's deal. But that doesn't mean he's giving up.

A/N: Forgive the delay. Seemed like every time I turned around, the boss was sending me out of the state. Occasional travel, my ass.

Warning: Language. Also, serious liberties with medical procedures. Those of you in the know, please forgive me if my medical procedures and terminology are half-assed. (Which makes me ponder what the opposite of half-assed would be. Full-assed? Ohhh, sleep deprivation...)

* * *

Chapter 4: Crisis of Faith

Sam's scream was still echoing off of the walls of the empty warehouse when he came back to himself. There was no time to grieve, and he didn't want to, wasn't going to, because Dean wasn't going to stay dead. Sam refused to accept a reality where Dean would stay dead.

Dean had done his part. The hardest part. Now it was Sam's turn.

Unwilling to let go of Dean--Dean's _body_, it wasn't Dean, not anymore--he fumbled with one hand into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. Hand shaking, he held down the number three, speed dialing Bobby's cell. He didn't bother to wait for an answer; he let the phone drop to the ground, knowing that Bobby would respond to the prearranged signal.

Sam had more important things to do.

His breathing was unsteady as he lowered Dean's body to the ground. Through strength of will alone, the younger Winchester forced his shaking hands to still. He came to his knees beside his dead brother, then reached down to tilt Dean's head back. He bent over and blew two breaths into Dean's mouth, then moved to start chest compressions.

The plan was to save Dean's soul from Hell, but that wouldn't mean a damn thing if Dean's soul didn't have a body to come back to.

As Sam worked, he found his vision tunneling until the only thing he saw was his brother's empty, dead eyes. He'd seen those eyes before, over and over and over, back when he'd lived through too many Tuesdays to count. His own eyes began to well up with tears, and he reached up to angrily brush them away. He would not cry for Dean, because Dean was not going to die. He would not let Dean die. Sam paused after the next set of chest compressions, reaching up to feel for a pulse at Dean's neck.

Nothing.

"Shit," Sam whispered harshly. "Come on, Dean," he commanded, as if his dead, soulless brother could somehow hear him and respond. "_Please_."

Sam leaned forward to breathe once more into Dean's lungs, willing Dean's body to start breathing again on its own. As he straightened and began chest compressions again, he felt panic threaten to overtake him. "Where are they?" he snapped, wanting to lash out at someone because anger kept the tears at bay.

It felt like an eternity. Every second that Dean's unseeing eyes stared at him held an accusation. Every moment that Dean's heart didn't beat was another step toward failure. Every breath Dean didn't take reminded Sam of the horrific life he'd already lived without his brother. A life that he would live again if he couldn't get Dean's heart and lungs working.

An eternity, but it was really only two and a half minutes.

An ambulance, sirens silenced, came screaming through the service entrance the Winchesters had left open for just that purpose. The vehicle came screeching to a halt a good ten feet away from Sam and Dean, back doors bursting open practically before the vehicle had stopped.

An older man, slightly overweight and with a thick mane of wavy salt-and-pepper hair, jumped out of the back, medical equipment in hand. It didn't take much more than a glance to be able to tell this man was a doctor--Doctor Marcus Gaffney, an important part of the big plan. All Sam knew about the man was that he owed Bobby a favor, and Bobby said the Doc, as he'd referred to him, could be trusted to keep his mouth shut, and, more importantly, keep Dean's heart beating. That was all Sam cared about.

The driver's door of the ambulance popped open and Bobby stepped out. As soon as his feet hit the ground, he froze, throat and chest tightening as emotion gripped him.

He knew what he was going to see. Thanks to Sam, they'd gone over the plan a hundred times, and he'd thought he'd prepared himself for what he would have to face. Dean was dead. He knew, as soon as he got the phone call from Sam, that Dean was dead. Maybe his brain hadn't accepted it, though, because to see Dean lying there now… and they'd let the demon just take him… _goddammit_.

Prepared or not, he was tired of seeing Winchesters dead .

Sam reluctantly allowed the doctor to push him aside. His heart hated putting his brother's life in someone else's hands, but his head told him that this man had the best chance of saving the physical part of Dean. Sam stood and backed away to give the doctor room to work, unable to tear his eyes from the tableau in front of him. As he watched, he unconsciously started chewing on the side of his thumbnail, and his body began to rock slightly in time to the compressions on Dean's chest.

He felt rather than saw Bobby come up beside him. When the older man's hand came to rest on his shoulder, Sam couldn't help but jerk and shrug it off.

He didn't want sympathy. Dean wasn't gone. Not forever. He'd just taken a little involuntary leave. Accepting comfort would be like admitting that he had failed, and he hadn't. _They_ hadn't. They'd get Dean back. They would. They had to.

Though Dean probably would've scoffed at him for it, he found himself sending up a desperate prayer. _Please, God, I'll do anything… anything… just save him. Please. Save my brother. _

The doctor didn't appear to be having any more luck with CPR than Sam had, so he switched to the portable defibrillator he'd brought with him. Sam watched as the doctor ripped Dean's shirt down the middle. As he attached the electrode pads, Sam's vision began to gray out as he was overcome with déjà vu.

Electricity coursed through Dean's body, causing it to arch off of the ground; Sam's body jerked in response, as if he could feel the jolt. His lips tightened into a thin line as he was overcome by memories of the last time he had seen Dean like this.

They had now come full circle. After the car wreck, Dean had almost died, flatlined, but they'd managed to bring him back to life. Their father had sold his soul to make sure that Dean stayed that way. Sam _had_ died, and Dean had sold his soul to save his little brother, who he had sworn to protect. Now Dean was dead. Again.

Sam could have decided to continue the circle. He could have sold his soul to save his brother and relish whatever time the demon would grant him before it came to collect. Then Dean would have to sell his soul again, then Sam, then Dean, until eventually their souls would be so tattered that the demons would no longer be willing to deal.

It had to stop.

Sam glanced down at his watch, the phantom ticking sounding off in his head like gunshots. Too long. He glanced back up to see the doctor still working on Dean.

"Come on, kid," the doctor huffed with a touch of a southern accent as squeezed the bulb of the CPR mask to force air into Dean's lungs. "Breathe."

Sam shuffled nervously forward, edging closer to his brother. "There's nothing wrong with him," Sam insisted, his tone edging closer to frantic. _Nothing wrong. That was the plan._ _Dean's body was supposed to be left in perfect condition… just empty. _"Why isn't he coming back? There's nothing wrong with his body." Sam hadn't counted on bringing Dean's body back to life as being the difficult part. Not with what he knew was yet to come.

Doc Gaffney cursed and wiped a hasty forearm across his sweaty brow as he prepared to shock Dean again. When he finally responded to Sam, he spoke in a calm tone that suggested he was used to dealing with hysterical family members. "Bringing a man back from the dead is not as easy as it looks on TV, boy. His body's had one hell of a shock, from what I hear, and it looks like it was too much to handle," he said, then sent more electricity coursing through Dean's body. He did it twice more.

Gaffney stopped and turned to look at Dean's vitals on the small monitor. Sam froze when the doctor bowed his head, defeat on his face. Gaffney glanced down at his own watch, then looked up at Sam, a question on his face.

Sam could see what the man was asking. He began to back away, shaking his head. "No. No, you bring him back."

"Sam…" Bobby began, reaching out to grab Sam's arm. This was what he had been most afraid of, what he had tried to warn Sam about when he'd come up with his crazy plan, though the boy had refused to listen. If they couldn't keep Dean's body alive…

"No!" Sam said violently, jerking his arm away. "You bring him back, goddammit! I don't care how long it takes!"

Sam's prior conviction--his determination to end the vicious circle of Winchesters selling their souls--self destructed when faced with the death, the _true _death, of his brother. His voice lowered to something deep and dangerous that was reminiscent of those days when he had been possessed. "Bring him back, or, so help me God, I will."

"Sam," Bobby said again, and this time it was an admonition.

Sam's head jerked to look at Bobby. He felt like his heart was beating at twice the normal speed, as if making up for every beat that should have been in Dean's now still heart. "I'm not losing my brother, Bobby. Not if there's a way that I can save him."

"At what cost?" Bobby asked gruffly, his tone tinged with anger. He was determined to stop Sam from making a deal of his own. If he'd followed his instincts and stayed after Sam's death instead of listening to Dean, they might not have been dealing with the shitstorm they were currently dealing with. But then, of course, Sam would be dead.

Damned if you do, damned if you don't. Winchesters were just damned, period.

Sam stared back at Bobby with the same steely determination he'd used to convince the man to help him, the same determination he'd used on Dean to convince him to follow a plan that was now rapidly disintegrating into dust.

"Everything I am, every good thing I've ever done in my entire life, is because of him. He made me into who I am today. Am I supposed to just forget that? If I sold my soul a thousand times, it still wouldn't be enough to repay everything he's given up for me. Whatever the cost, it will never be enough."

Bobby's protest died on his lips. How the hell did you think up a comeback to something like that?

"You might want to hold up on whatever you're planning, son."

Both Sam's and Bobby's heads turned at the interjection from Doc Gaffney. They had been so caught up in their own battle that they had lost track of the more important one. While they'd been arguing, the doctor had made one last, and successful, attempt to save his patient.

Gaffney nodded his head toward Dean. "We got him back. He's stable for now, but we need to get him to the house as soon as possible. We need to get him on life support right away."

"He's okay?" Sam asked shakily, then mentally chastised himself. Of course Dean was not okay. He was an empty shell. But they would see to that soon enough. As long as Dean's body was alive, there was hope.

"Like I said, for now. But he won't be if we don't get moving."

That was all Sam and Bobby needed to hear. They sprung into action, getting the gurney from the ambulance so they could move Dean. As they loaded their precious cargo into the vehicle, Sam paused, turning to stare at something on the other side of the room. Bobby stopped beside him and turned to see what Sam was looking at.

Ruby's body, now vacant, lying in a broken heap on the floor.

Both men stared at the body for a second, then turned to each other and shared a look. It was a look that could only be understood by people who have done things that the common man would find distasteful, but the informed man knew was necessary.

"Burn it," Sam said, his tone tinged with mild disgust.

It wasn't the prospect of burning the body that disgusted Sam. No, he was disgusted with himself. He wondered if the demon hadn't chosen such a pretty package, would he have been less willing to give his trust? If the demon's chosen vehicle hadn't had flowing blonde hair, sparkling eyes, and a lithe figure, would he have seen the thing for what it truly was?

He'd never know, and maybe that was a good thing.

Bobby hesitated only for a moment--more from Sam's tone than his request--then he nodded lightly. Sam dug into his pocket and pulled out the keys to the Impala, handing them to Bobby. Aside from Dean, Bobby was the only person that he knew he could trust to deal with what remained of Ruby, as well as Dean's beloved car.

* * *

Marcus Gaffney, who had been busy checking Dean's blood pressure, paused to glance at his patient's brother out of the corner of his eye.

He knew what Sam and Dean Winchester did for a living, though sometimes he still found it hard to believe. In fact, if someone had told him ten years ago that he would believe demons, he would've laughed in his face, then probably asked him to take a drug test. But that had been then. Before his teenage son had been possessed by a demon.

It was how he had met Bobby Singer. He'd come across Bobby's name through a mutual acquaintance, and had been desperate enough to call the man for help. The only other option would've been to have his son committed, and he just couldn't do that. Trusting his son's life to a man he didn't know hadn't come easy either, but he'd figured if it hadn't worked, a little Latin and holy water probably wouldn't do any harm. It was a desperate move by a desperate man. He hadn't really expected it to work.

That night, nine years ago, Bobby Singer had saved his son, and Marcus Gaffney had become a reluctant believer.

And now he was sitting with two men from Bobby's world, one barely alive--and without a soul, if Bobby was to be believed--and the other staring at his brother with a desperate intensity that made Gaffney believe that he was sitting across from a very dangerous man. It made him wonder just this kid would do if his brother died.

What the hell had he gotten himself into?

* * *

Sam stood in the doorway to the library--now a makeshift hospital room--leaning heavily against the frame. The sliding double doors had been pushed back into the wall to make the room as easily accessible as possible and to allow them to keep an eye on Dean from across the hall in the living room, where all of the action would be taking place. Across the room, various medical devices beeped and whirred, making a familiar music that Sam had come to hate.

Dean lay on the hospital bed, his features highlighted only by a dim lamp on the mahogany desk, which had been pushed to the side to make room for all of the equipment Bobby and Doc Gaffney had managed to smuggle out of the hospital. That equipment was keeping Dean's body alive--breathing tubes and IVs and heart monitors, and hadn't they been down this road before, so many times? Why was it that he was always the one standing vigil while Dean was always the one fighting for his life?

Sam already knew the answer to that one, but he didn't have to like it.

In the muted light, it didn't look like Dean was breathing at all. Sam found himself staring at Dean's chest, watching for the barely perceptible rise and fall. The beeping of the heart monitor was both welcomed and despised, a reminder that his brother's body was still alive, but also that the clock was ticking.

Sam glanced around him, taking in the expensive, uncomfortable-looking furniture, the gleaming wood and brass. The wall behind Dean was full of leather-bound books, many of which Sam suspected were first edition classics. To the right of the bed was a gorgeous marble fireplace, logs piled artfully inside but unlit. The rug looked like it had never seen a crumb in its life. If there was a television, it was well hidden. The rest of the house was pretty much the same--very upscale and a bit pretentious.

It was a good thing Dean was "out," so to speak. He would've hated it here.

Sam saw Doc Gaffney come up beside him out of the corner of his eye. Never taking his eyes off Dean, he said, "I thought you said he was breathing on his own?" He could hear the accusation in his tone and knew that it was unwarranted, but it was too late to take it back.

Gaffney was unfazed. He knew from experience that every person dealt with this kind of crisis in a different way. And this crisis, admittedly, was a bit beyond his experience. "He is," he replied quietly. "He's just not doing too good a job of it."

Sam's head turned around at this, and Gaffney felt a stab of sympathy. He could see Sam was trying to keep it together, probably thought he was handling it pretty well, too, but the kid's face was an open book. A myriad of emotions flitted across Sam's face: worry, fear, love, desperation.

He gave Sam a small smile and clarified. "His breathing is shallower than I'd like. The respirator is just making sure he gets the enough oxygen."

Sam sniffed and swallowed hard, turning his head away. He clenched his teeth together, hard. He was not going to break down in front of a stranger. He was not going to break down, period. _Suck it up_, _Sammy_, he mentally chastised himself, and his inner voice had somehow become Dean's. _Crying is for pussies_.

Gaffney walked across the room and began to check the readouts on various machines. "I'm not gonna lie to you, son. Dean's in a heavy coma. There's virtually no brainwave activity, and he's completely unresponsive to any stimuli. Most people in this state don't recover." He didn't mention anything about Dean's soul. Even if it was true that a demon had taken Dean's soul, he had no idea what that would mean in terms of recovery.

Gaffney saw Sam turn his eyes back on his brother, and if he was not mistaken, he saw a hint of pride in Sam's face. "Dean's not most people. He's beaten the odds before. He'll do it again."

The doctor straightened and looked Sam in the eye. "I don't know what you're going to do, Sam, and frankly, I don't wanna know. But I'll watch over him until it's done."

Sam felt some of the tension in his muscles ease. Something told him he could trust this man to watch over his brother. "Thank you, Doctor Gaffney."

Gaffney laughed and shook his head. "Might as well call me Doc, son. All of my patients call me that, and more than half my friends, now that I think about it. I'm kind of used to it. 'Sides, _Doctor Gaffney_'s too stuffy. Kind of like this house."

Sam's lips quirked slightly--as close as he could come to a smile at that moment. "Sure thing... Doc."

Just then Bobby walked in, and if you weren't looking for it, you wouldn't have noticed how he faltered for just a second, at the sight of Dean lying there. Not dead, but pretty much as good as unless they could get his soul back.

Sam turned to Bobby, and his heart began to pound just a little faster. "Are they ready?"

Bobby shook his head. "They said they're gonna need another hour or two to prepare. Cleansing ritual. Plus, we need to finish the defenses: wards, hex bags, salt-lines. You know the drill."

"Dammit, this stuff should've been taken care of before we got here. We need to get this done _now_," Sam said, and he turned around, planning on pushing them along.

Bobby knew what Sam was going to do and grabbed his arm, concerned and a little bit angry. "Don't go running off, half-cocked. This is some serious shit were dealing with here, boy. Life or death shit, and more than just you and your brother's. All of us are at risk. You best not take it lightly."

Sam closed his eyes and counted to ten. _Calm. Bobby's right. He's right, and you know it. You can't afford to screw this up. _"I'm sorry. It's just... the thought of Dean... _there_. She… _It_..." Sam corrected, unable to think of it as Ruby anymore, "...the demon... it said they'd be waiting for him."

Both hunters turned their heads to look at their fallen comrade. The steady beep of the heart monitor was like a countdown.

"We'll get him back," Bobby said, placing a hand on Sam's shoulder. He wanted to believe he was telling the truth.

"Yeah," Sam said, and for the first time, his heart wasn't in it. The task ahead suddenly seemed too daunting. Was he strong enough to do what needed to be done? Could he really go against the forces of Hell and expect to win? Or was he just completely out of his mind, and his crazy-ass plan had just damned his brother's soul to eternal torment?

Hearing the doubt in that one word, and understanding where it was coming from, Bobby gave Sam's shoulder a little reassuring squeeze. "I'll go see if I can help speed things up a bit. Why don't you stay here with Dean?" he added, unnecessarily. As if there was any other place Sam would rather be.

Sam walked over to Dean's bed, shoulders sagging slightly and reminding Bobby more of the boy he had been than the man he had become. After a moment of hesitation, Sam gingerly sat down on the end of the bed, letting out a shaky exhalation of air that didn't quite end in a sob. Bobby found himself blinking back tears.

The elder hunter backed out of the room, pulling the double doors shut behind him. He didn't want anyone bothering them; this moment belonged to the Winchesters.

* * *

Sam sat on the end of Dean's bed, watching the machines help his brother breathe. Bobby and Doc Gaffney had disappeared over an hour ago, leaving Sam alone with Dean's shell and his own thoughts.

For the first time in months, Sam had time to kill.

It was unfamiliar territory for him. For weeks, months even, he'd felt like time had been screaming by, rushing them toward Dean's deadline. Now that the contract had been fulfilled, every minute seemed to last forever. An eternity existed between every tick of the clock. An eternity with Dean in Hell.

Sam paced for a while, pushed by his need to do something _now_. His anxiety grew exponentially with every step. He knew that he should be patient, that everything needed to be perfect for this to work, but he was having a hard time standing around, doing nothing. Doing nothing meant that he had time to think, and thinking was bad, because every time he thought about what needed to be done, he felt doubt creep in just a little bit more. Eventually, the pacing started to wear him down, and he came to rest at the bottom of Dean's bed. He'd been sitting there for quite a while.

Sam placed a hand on Dean's ankle, which was buried under a light blanket. It made him feel weak and childish, but he needed that physical connection, if only to reassure himself that part of Dean remained in this world, and all was not lost.

His brother was now clothed in sweats and black t-shirt. His chest looked strangely bare without his amulet, which still hung around Sam's neck. Sam had thought about returning it to Dean, but the weight of it around his own neck was a welcome comfort. In some ways, he felt more connected to Dean through it than through the body in front of him. It was as if the amulet, which his brother had worn since the day Sam had given it to him, had somehow absorbed some of the vital essence that was Dean. Like it carried a tiny fleck of Dean's soul.

Maybe it did. Or maybe it was just enough for Sam to believe that it did.

Sam reached up and closed his other hand over the amulet, feeling its edges dig into his skin as he held it tight. He closed his eyes for a moment, allowing himself a moment of comfort.

When he opened his eyes, nothing around him had changed. Dean lay there still, an empty shell. The monitors still beeped and whirred. The expensive grandfather clock on the other side of the room still ticked away. But something inside of Sam had changed.

He wasn't afraid anymore.

It's not like he wasn't scared. Anybody who was about to do what Sam was about to do and not be scared would be completely out of his mind. But he no longer feared failure. Sam knew would save Dean. He just _knew_. There was no longer any doubt in his mind.

"You remember that time…" Sam began, bowing his head and smiling slightly, almost as if he was embarrassed, "…man, I think I was about nine? No, ten. It was Halloween, and all the kids were allowed to dress up in costumes for school. It was kind of a consensus that all of the guys would dress up as their favorite hero. The other guys, they were dressed like Batman or Superman, a fireman or a cop or whatever." Sam shook his head. "Not me. I swiped that leather jacket you'd found at some used clothing store and your sunglasses and went in there trying to look all badass like my big brother. The kids, they kept asking me if I was trying to be Arnold in T2. I was like, please, my brother could kick Arnold's ass… a bunch of bull, really, but back then, I believed it."

The grandfather clock behind him began to chime, marking the hour. Sam paused to look at it, heaved a sigh, then looked back at Dean.

"They made fun of me, for dressing up like you. I wouldn't have cared, but then they started making fun of you. That was the first fight I ever got into at school. Remember? They had to call you out of class at the middle school because they couldn't get a hold of Dad."

Sam laughed a little. "I can still see your face, when you came into the office and spotted me in your jacket, with blood on it, no less. I could see that for a second, you were pissed at me for taking it without asking. Then there was surprise, followed by a bit of pride, I think. Not really the reaction my teacher was looking for."

"She told you she'd thought I'd taken the big brother hero worship a little too far. But what did she know, right? Sure, a lot of kids may have had a case of hero worship for their big brothers, but how many of them could actually say that their brother really _is_ a hero?"

Sam bowed his head and began to pick at a loose thread on the blanket. He swallowed hard. "Seems like you've always been a hero. It just came naturally to you. It never did for me, and I think that's part of the reason Dad and I butted heads so often. I could never be as good as you, so at some point, I stopped trying. Dad may have been pissed at me for it, but being pissed was better than being disappointed, right? I guess I threw myself into books partly because I knew it was one area you couldn't--more like _wouldn't_--compete. Pretty childish, huh?"

Sam fell silent once more. He desperately wished for one of Dean's smart-ass comments or bad jokes, but there was only silence. After a while, Sam raised his eyes to look at Dean's face. "I may not be the hero you are, Dean, but I swear to you, I will get you out of Hell. I won't let you down."

"Sam."

Sam turned his head at the sound of the soft, feminine voice. Standing in the doorway, hidden partially behind it, was a young woman. She'd slid the doors open so quietly that Sam hadn't even heard her. She looked like she was no older than sixteen, but Sam knew for a fact that she was twenty. She also looked like she would blow away if you breathed in her direction.

The girl was painfully thin and so pale that her skin seemed almost translucent. She had the big, brown eyes of a frightened doe, and her demeanor did not belie the image. When Sam's eyes met hers, she immediately lowered hers and bashfully backed a bit further behind the door, though her pale skin didn't seem to be able to work up enough blood flow to blush.

_This_ was who their lives depended on--a fragile little wisp of a girl who was his only hope of getting Dean's soul out of Hell. Everything hinged on her. The burden of it seemed too much for her small shoulders to bear.

As if sensing his thoughts, the girl straightened and, with some effort, raised her eyes to meet Sam's. What on the surface seemed weak was not weak at all. Sam felt as if he were falling into her eyes, and behind them was a force to be reckoned with. The determination in her gaze was only rivaled by his own. When she spoke again, her voice was a little stronger, fortified by her resolve.

"We're ready."

* * *

A/N: It seems I still haven't gotten over my cliffhanger addiction. Apologies.


	5. Into the Fire

No Dominion

By Inzane

Disclaimer: I take no credit for the genius characters and world Eric Kripke has created. I can only take credit for the playground I have temporarily put them in.

Summary: After a year of increasingly desperate research, Sam finally accepts that there is no way to break Dean's deal. But that doesn't mean he's giving up.

A/N: Please forgive the delay, once again. This time, it was all on me. I was having a little difficultly embracing the angst. You can't write a story about Dean in Hell without embracing the angst. (Well, _I_ can't, anyway.) Hopefully, I'm back to good.

Warning: Language and some very disturbing imagery. Seriously. It disturbed me, and I'm the one that wrote it. Consider this fair warning.

* * *

Chapter 5: Into the Fire

He stood in the doorway, spine ramrod straight and hands clenched tightly behind his back, as he stared at his little girl. She sat on the floor of her bedroom, legs crossed, eyes closed, small hands folded in her lap--preparing herself for what was to come.

His Charlotte. Not so little, anymore, and not his, really, but that didn't matter. He was her father in all the ways that counted. Some ties ran deeper than blood.

His daughter was grown--a woman, and a powerful one at that, despite the appearance of her fragile body. He knew how irritated she would get when she thought he was coddling her, but he couldn't help it. He would always think of Charlotte as the delicate little waif he'd found abandoned at train station, staring up at him with huge, pleading eyes. One look into those eyes and he'd known that she was special. He'd also known that he would give his life to protect her.

Grim lines dug in deep at the corners of his mouth as he frowned. For the umpteenth time that day, Clay Atherton wondered if he had made a mistake.

He'd let these people into his home. These strangers. He'd let them ensconce a mostly dead man in his library. He was about to let them put his daughter at risk. And for what? For what? Some half-assed plan which would most likely only result in pissing off a bunch of demons, all so some stupid kid could save his brother.

What did he care for them? They were _hunters_--the very type of people who had persecuted his kind since time immemorial. These men were dangerous. They were a danger to his coven, and a danger to his daughter, and he certainly didn't owe them anything. He should dump them out on the front lawn and forget they even existed.

Clay cursed the day he let Sam Winchester near his daughter.

* * *

_One Month Ago…_

_It was late, and Clay Atherton was in a foul mood. The combination of last minute changes to blueprints for the new courthouse and missing dinner with his daughter because said changes had to be finished _yesterday _contributed to his mood. He hated missing dinner with his daughter. _

_What was the point of owning your own architectural firm if you couldn't even make it home in time for dinner? Between the demands of running a company and the demands of leading the coven, he felt like he'd hardly had any time for Charlotte lately. He'd have to cancel the coven meeting tomorrow night and take her somewhere special to make it up to her. _

_Clay trudged through the foyer, sighing as he deposited his briefcase and keys on the nearby table. He wished he could've had a butler or housekeeper waiting for him, like he'd had when he was a kid, but Charlotte was uneasy around other people. The cook and the housekeeper left at seven o'clock every night, so his rolling in at 10:30 would mean he had the house to himself; Charlotte would've gone to bed over an hour ago._

_He was so tired from his long day that he didn't realize there was someone in his house until he heard a soft voice behind him._

"_Mr. Atherton?"_

_He spun, heart pounding in his chest. He grabbed the first thing he could find, which happened to be a long-necked vase, brandishing his feeble weapon at the intruder._

_The intruder was not quite what he expected._

_He was expecting someone that fit the typical bad guy stereotype movies and TV liked to perpetuate--big, bad, and scary as hell, with tattoos and scars and a stare that would make his blood run cold. What he saw was a kid that looked like he could've just stepped off the local college campus. The only thing that did live up to expectations was that he was big. _

_But that didn't make him any less of a threat._

_The guy held his hands up, palms out, to prove he was unarmed. He had this wide-eyed, earnest look on his face; so earnest, in fact, that when the intruder said, "Don't be scared. I'm not going to hurt you," Clay almost believed him._

"_Who are you?" Clay asked, his voice unsteady. "What the hell are you doing in my house?"_

_The young man took a step closer, lowering his hands slightly. "My name is Sam Winchester. I need your help."_

"_Stay where you are!" _

"_Okay. Look, take it easy, man. I'm just here to talk."_

"_You want to talk, you call my office and make an appointment. You don't break into my house!"_

_His unwanted guest heaved a frustrated sigh and ran a hand through his mass of dark hair, of which there was quite a bit. "I know. I _tried_ that. This is not how I wanted to handle things, either, but I don't have time for your secretary to give me the run around again." The man hesitated for a couple of heartbeats, then added quietly but firmly, "I need to talk to your daughter."_

_Clay's blood pressure shot up off the charts. He reached down, fumbling to pull his cell phone out of the case attached to his belt. "I'm calling the police."_

_In an instant, the young man closed the distance between them, grabbing his wrists in a move so quick that Clay was startled into dropping both his cell phone and the vase, which shattered into tiny pieces. The illusion of the college boy shattered much as the vase had. _

"_I'm sorry, but I can't let you do that," Sam said, his voice eerily calm. _

_Sam Winchester, whoever he was, was no innocent. Clay could see that in his eyes; although the boy must've only been in his early to mid twenties, his eyes were ancient. They were the eyes of someone who had seen too much, done too much, for someone so young. But that wasn't what frightened Clay. What frightened Clay was the desperation in those eyes. Desperation was bad. Very, very bad._

"_Look, take whatever you want. There are a lot of expensive items here that would fetch you a good price."_

_Sam shook his head. "I don't want your stuff. Listen..."_

"_Take whatever you want. Take it all. Just don't hurt my daughter."_

_Sam tightened his grip, causing Clay to feel a bit of desperation of his own. His wished that spells didn't take so much preparation and ritual. He knew of several that could help him out in this situation, but he didn't think the kid would wait patiently while he grabbed the necessary supplies and cast his circle._

"_You're not listening to me," Sam growled, giving Clay a little shake. "I'm not here to hurt you or your daughter. I need to..."_

"_Daddy?"_

_Both men turned at the sound of the soft, uncertain voice behind them. Charlotte stood at the bottom of the stairs, her brow furrowed in confusion at the scene before her._

_Sam turned at the sound of Charlotte's voice. Clay saw their eyes meet, and it seemed like something arced between them--almost an electrical connection. _

_Power recognizing power._

_Clay's blood turned to ice. Sam Winchester was no ordinary intruder._

_Sam's hands loosened and fell to his sides, while Charlotte's eyes widened and her mouth fell slightly open. They were so transfixed by each other that neither of them saw Clay pick up a heavy lamp and swing it at Sam's head until it was too late._

"_No!" Charlotte yelled, reaching out a hand as if she could stop the swing mid-flight. _

_At the sound of her cry, Sam turned, automatically raising his arm to block. The move deflected part of the blow, but not all. The end of the lamp caught Sam across his chin, causing his head to snap back, and he crashed to the ground. _

"_No!" Charlotte cried out again and ran into the room. Clay's eyes widened in shock when his daughter didn't run to him for protection, but instead sank to her knees beside Sam Winchester, leaning over him to examine his wound._

"_Get away from him, Charlotte!" Clay commanded, breathing heavily as he held the lamp, planning to brain the kid at the first sign of movement._

"_Daddy..."_

"_Get away from him. Now."_

_Charlotte shook her head. "He's not here to hurt us."_

"_You don't know that."_

_Charlotte paused for a moment, turning to stare up into his eyes, her own intense. "Yes. I do. You know I do."_

_Clay hesitated, and his hold on the lamp began to falter. His faith in his daughter warred with his desire to protect her._

_He should have known better. His number one priority should always be to protect his daughter... even if it was from herself._

_While her back was turned to him, Sam Winchester leaned forward and wrapped an arm around Charlotte's shoulders. Her eyes flew wide as Sam scrambled backwards to his feet, pulling her with him. Clay started forward, but froze when he saw light glint off the metal of the gun in his hand._

"_Stop!" Sam cried out, and somewhere in the back of Clay's mind, he registered that the kid sounded scared, like _he_ was the one being held hostage, not the one holding the gun. "Just stop right there."_

_Clay also noticed that the hand that held the gun was shaking slightly._

_He raised his hands in the no-harm gesture, taking a step backwards. "Okay. Okay. I'll do whatever you want. Just please... let my daughter go. She can't take all this excitement."_

_Sam's face was stern, and if you didn't look at his eyes, you might have believed he was willing to pull that trigger. His eyes... they told a different tale. Those eyes held pain and grief, anger and remorse. Looking into those eyes, Clay didn't know what to think._

_Charlotte had looked into those same eyes, and whatever she had seen there had convinced her this young man was not the enemy. "I know you won't hurt me, Sam."_

"_Be quiet," Sam whispered harshly, tightening his grip on her slightly, causing her to gasp._

"_Tell me what you want," Clay said a little louder than he needed to, trying to draw Sam's attention away from Charlotte._

"_I want you to listen!" Sam said, his voice unsteady with emotion. Then his face crumpled and he pushed Charlotte away from him, sending her stumbling into her father's arms. Sam backed up a step, then collapsed into the chair behind him, leaning heavily on his knees. He put his head in his hands, never releasing his gun, so that the cold metal smacked against the side of his head. "_Please_. I just want you to listen."_

_No one moved. They all seemed to be caught under the same spell, and each reluctant to break it. Then something unexpected happened._

_Sam Winchester smiled._

_It wasn't a pleasant smile. More of a chagrined, I'm-a-dumbass-and-I've-completely-fucked-this-up kind of smile. But it somehow made the tension in the room fade away. _

_Sam reached up to feel his bottom lip, which was split and trailing blood down his chin. The smile changed to a grimace. "Ah, hell. Now I'm gonna have to come up with some way to explain a fat lip to Dean."_

"_Who's Dean?" Charlotte asked, taking a step away from Clay._

"_Charlotte..." Clay said in warning, grabbing her around the arm and pulling her back._

_The young woman turned on her father, trying to tug her arm out of his grasp but failing, even though his touch was light. "I need to hear him, Daddy. Help him."_

_Clay shook his head, pulling Charlotte further away, while never taking his eyes off of Sam Winchester. "No. We need to call the police. We need to..."_

"_I need to help him," Charlotte repeated, digging in her heels both physically and metaphorically._

_Clay frowned, a line of worry creasing his brow. "Why?" he asked, looking from Charlotte to Sam and back again, trying to figure out what it was that made the boy special. _

_Charlotte's face slackened, and her eyes took on a faraway, dreamy look. "If you could see what I see..." She trailed off, caught up in the sight that was part of her gift. Then her eyes snapped back into focus and locked onto her father's. "We need to hear him out."_

_Clay tried to stare his daughter down, but he knew it was hopeless. Charlotte rarely ever took a stand on anything, but when she did, there was no moving her._

_He raised his head to look over at Sam, who was now sitting upright in the chair, nervously awaiting the outcome of their conversation. The gun was nowhere in sight. _

_Clay narrowed his eyes. "You've got thirty minutes._

_It took an hour and a half._

_They ended up in the kitchen, Clay and Charlotte on one side of the table, Sam on the other. Several dusty books, which Clay had eyed enviously, sat open on the table, pages flagged with yellow stickies. The young man had spent over an hour explaining his brother's deal, his subsequent death, and the ancient rituals Sam had found that he was planning to use to bring his brother back._

_He might have been willing. He might have even been able to convince his coven to help. Just the chance to glance at some of the texts the kid had, it would have been worth it. But that all changed when he found out the role Sam intended for Charlotte to play._

_There'd been some yelling and pacing. Charlotte had tried to calm him down, while all the while, Sam Winchester sat with his hands folded on the table, waiting. Only the whiteness of his knuckles betrayed his tension. _

"_Tell me, Winchester," Clay said, slapping his hands on the table, leaning toward the boy, "why the hell should I risk my coven, my daughter, to help someone I don't even know?"_

_Sam bowed his head, and for a moment, Clay thought he had won. But then Sam reached into his bag and pulled out a small notebook. He plucked a picture from the book, then spun it and placed it on the table in front of Charlotte._

"_This is my brother, Dean. It's from a couple of months ago. I snapped it when he wasn't looking, had it printed out."_

_Charlotte leaned forward to look at the picture intently, tugging on her father's arm to pull him back down into his chair. The man in the picture didn't look much like Sam. Where Sam had that affable, frat-boy look, the man in the picture seemed rugged, experienced; combine this with movie-star looks, and he became the prototypical "bad boy" that all fathers prayed would never cross their daughters' path. Dean was leaning on a restaurant counter, apparently flirting with the waitress. His smile was crooked, and his vivid green eyes mischievous. His charm was obvious, even from just a picture, and Clay was sure that the young man had left with the waitress' phone number. _

"_Dean's got this… I don't know, magnetism, I guess. People have always been drawn to him, which is not always the greatest thing in our line of work. He has this overwhelming personality... he just kind of sucks people in. Love him or hate him, he always seems to get an extreme response. I don't think he really cares, because he's pretty extreme himself. There's no halfway with my brother."_

_Clay noticed the wistful quality in Sam's tone as the boy continued. "Dean's spent his whole life looking out for me. Our mom died when I was a baby, and our dad... he, um, didn't handle things too well after that, so Dean pretty much raised me. He never got the chance at a real childhood, because he was too busy making sure I had one. Maybe that's why he is the way he is. He's always been willing to sacrifice himself--for me, our dad, anybody. He never really needed a reason; saving somebody was enough. He's a hero," Sam said bitterly, as if he wished it wasn't true. "A goddamn hero."_

_The boy ran a hand through his hair and then pushed himself out of the chair, beginning to pace. "Dean's saved so many people, I can't even begin to count. He's never asked for anything in return. Hell, most of them don't even now they've been saved. He's saved _my _life more times than I can count. He deserves to be saved for once." _

_Sam turned to meet Charlotte's eyes, as if he instinctively understood who it really was that he had to convince. "I know what I'm asking is dangerous. I wouldn't ask if I had anywhere else to turn. But I don't. I'm out of options. You are my last hope. If you don't agree to do this, I'll try it without you. I'll probably fail, but I'm not going to just stand here and do nothing while my brother burns in Hell. Dean is the last person I have left in this world, and I will not let him go."_

_Clay prayed that Charlotte would turn him down. Sam's plan was insane. Anyone could see that. But when his daughter stood and squared her slight shoulders, he knew they were sunk._

"_You won't have to," Charlotte said, lifting her chin in defiance of the protest she expected her father would be launching her way._

_Clay didn't protest. He knew a lost cause when he saw it. "This is crazy," Clay said, shaking his head._

_Sam Winchester shrugged slightly, as if in apology. "Crazy's all I got."_

* * *

Charlotte must have sensed his presence in the doorway. She opened her eyes, then a slow smile spread across her face. It made him ache, that smile, to think that he might never see it again.

"You don't have to do this," he said, making one last attempt to talk her out of it.

"Yes. I do."

"It's too dangerous, Charlotte. You could die… or worse," he added, thinking of the soulless young man in his library.

Charlotte rose to her feet and stood face to face with the only father she'd ever known. She understood his fears, and she had some of her own, but she also had a newfound sense of purpose, which overrode her fear. "What's the point of having this gift if I don't use it to do some good?"

"I don't trust them."

Charlotte reached up to place a hand on her father's cheek. "Then trust _me_. They are good men. They won't let me come to harm."

Clay closed his eyes in defeat, nodding lightly. Charlotte stood on tiptoe to place a soft kiss on his cheek, then whispered into his ear, "It's time. I'm going to go get Sam."

* * *

Dean Winchester wondered what in the hell was going on.

He stood in front of a house. A pretty, white house, with a freshly mowed lawn and big tree out front, sitting in the heart of suburbia.

It was _his _house.

Dean had no memory of how he'd come to stand on the front lawn of the house he hadn't seen since he was four years old. When he tried to remember how he'd gotten there, he found that he couldn't remember what he'd done yesterday, or the day before that. He tried to go back further, but it seemed like his head was filled with an inky blackness.

When he pushed past the void, he found that the last thing he remembered was getting into his car, planning to head to Palo Alto to talk to his brother after Dad had disappeared.

Dean frowned. That couldn't be right. He knew there was something after that. He could feel it. But whatever it was, it was missing. It felt like someone had reached in with a spoon and scooped out a portion of his brain, taking something more precious to him than any possession. He had no home, save for his car. No mementos of the life he had lived, save for his shotgun and his leather jacket and the few pictures he'd managed to keep in a small tin hidden in the trunk of the Impala. All he had were his memories, and someone, or some_thing_, had taken that away from him.

He knew he needed to get those memories back, but right now he had more important things on his mind. The most important being how he'd come to stand in front of the last place in the world he had ever wanted to be. Find that memory, and the rest would come. He was sure of it.

He felt every single hair on his body stand on end. Something wasn't right.

Dean turned slowly in a circle, taking in his surroundings. The sky seemed wrong, somehow. There was something about the color, reddish in the twilight; it made him feel like he was under a sea of blood. He also had the weird feeling that it was too close, like he could reach out and touch it if he wanted. He almost did, but then pulled his arm back down, afraid that if he did reach up, that his fingertips might come back covered in blood.

Then there was the unnatural silence: no birds, no barking dogs, no cars, no TVs playing a little too loud. The silence wasn't complete, though; he could hear the sound of wind, whispering through the trees. There was nothing but the wind, and the blood red sky.

Dean froze, hands clenching into fists as the realization hit him.

The trees weren't moving.

The wind sounded steadily in his ears, but the trees didn't move. At all. Not one leaf. The paradox made Dean realize that he couldn't _feel_ the wind, either. He was surrounded by utter stillness and utter silence, save for the sound of wind that couldn't be wind. His heart sped a little faster, and he automatically reached behind his back for the gun he had tucked there.

His hand only found bare flesh. The gun was gone.

"Shit," Dean whispered, afraid to talk too loud in case it might draw the attention of whatever it was that was doing this to him.

The house loomed before him. Waiting.

The last thing he wanted to do was go into that house. What he wanted to do was jump in his car and haul ass to California, pick up Sam, and search for their father. But his car was no where to be found, he was unarmed, and he was out in the open. And he was seriously pissed off that his gut was telling him that the answers to all his questions were inside that goddamn house. A house that he had, on more than one occasion, seriously considered introducing to the business end of a flamethrower, just so that it would stop haunting his dreams.

_Come on, Dean,_ he mentally chided himself. _It's just a house._

He knew that it wasn't really a house, that he wasn't really standing there, that none of this was actually happening. He knew that he was being fucked with, trapped in his own mind or something, with his own memories, and lack thereof, being used against him. But that didn't change the fact that he didn't want to go into the place that he'd sworn he'd never go back to, and that didn't change the fact that he had to do just that.

"I wish Sam was here," Dean muttered. He cursed quietly, then forced himself to put one foot in front of the other as he approached the house.

The world shifted around him as he moved. He forced himself to keep his eyes focused on the front door, but he could see blackness approaching out of the corner of his eye, swirling and writhing, swallowing up the surrounding houses. Although Dean kept his pace steady, it felt like he was moving under water. His muscles felt heavier than they should have been, and the simple act of walking took a shocking amount of effort. Beads of sweat popped out on his brow as he placed his hand on the doorknob.

He was inside the house.

He hadn't opened the door. Hadn't stepped inside. One minute, he'd been outside, his hand on the knob, and the next, he was standing at the bottom of the stairs, staring up at the strange orange-ish glow coming from the top.

It looked like… fire.

Dean cursed rather inventively for the next fifteen seconds. Then he raised his eyes to the ceiling and yelled, "Whoever is doing this to me, you are seriously gonna fucking regret it! You hear me, you sonofabitch?! When I get outta here, I am so gonna waste your ass!"

Whoever was running the show must not have been amused, because the glow from the flames increased. All of the sudden, Dean could hear the crackling of the fire, smell the smoke.

Then he heard a baby cry.

Sam.

Dean forgot that he was the star of some sick puppet show inside his own head. He forgot that nothing around him was really happening. The cry of his baby brother had pierced through him, causing him to forget thought and act on instinct.

Protect Sam. Save Sam.

Dean bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time, the lethargy that had afflicted him outside the house gone. When he reached the top, he ran to the bedroom that he knew was Sam's, even though he hadn't been back in over twenty years and he'd only been four at the time.

He stopped just inside the doorway and looked up. The ceiling was just like he last remembered it--on fire, with his mother in the middle of the flames.

It was the same, but it wasn't. She didn't look like she was in pain. She just lay there, defying gravity and the flames that tried to consume her. It seemed like she had become _part_ of the fire. Her face was serene, her eyes following him as he stepped further into the room.

The baby was still screaming.

The sound of it was like nails across the chalkboard of his soul, but he couldn't move. He couldn't take his eyes off his mother.

It was her eyes, and what they held, that locked him into place. It was like she was looking into his soul. Her eyes were mirrors, reflecting what she saw back at him.

He was a failure. A disappointment. He was never good enough, and he would never be good enough. His baby brother was going to die, and it would be his fault.

_His fault._

This thought broke the spell, and Dean could once again move. He spun and snagged Baby Sam out of the crib, knowing that he shouldn't be able to do it, that if Sam was only a baby, then he was only four and shouldn't be able to just pluck little Sammy from his crib with ease. He should be struggling with the weight of a six-month old baby, running with a burden that was almost too much for his four-year old body to carry, not cradling Sam in the arms of a grown man. But he didn't care. He had to save Sam.

Dean tucked his baby (literally) brother inside his jacket, hoping the leather would protect Sammy from the heat of the flames. Then he ran.

As soon as he stepped into the hall, Sam's high-pitched cries still assaulting his ears, he knew he was in trouble. The stairwell was on fire. It should've have been, but apparently what _was_ and was_ is_ were two entirely different things. What _is_ should never fucking _be_, and he knew he was in serious trouble when Zeppelin lyrics started popping into his head. Turning to Zeppelin in a time of crisis meant he was pretty close to losing it, and that was so not good. He had to keep a cool head if he was going to save Sammy.

Dean spun and ran in the opposite direction, down the hall and away from the flames.

Once he was away from the heat, he realized that he shouldn't still be running. The house just wasn't that big. He'd been running for almost a full minute, but the end of the hallway didn't seem any closer, and he could feel flames licking at his heels. Sammy's wails, which hadn't stopped and had somehow gotten louder than the Impala's stereo cranked to full blast, made it impossible to think.

He skidded to a halt when a wall of flame burst across the hall in front of him. He should've had nowhere to go, with the flames right at his back, but when he turned his head, he saw another hallway, one that shouldn't be there, off to his right. He took off down it, clutching his screaming brother to his chest, desperate with his need to get Sam to safety.

_Take your brother outside as fast as you can! Don't look back! Now, Dean, go!_

He didn't look back. But the hall-that-should-not-be (_"And if I say to you tomorrow. Take my hand, child, come with me…" Shit, Dean, get a grip_!) was no path to safety. It began to twist and turn like a maze, running him into dead ends and making him backtrack, confusing him to the point where he could almost forget why he was running in the first place. And he would have forgotten, too, if it weren't for Sammy's screams.

Suddenly, the walls around him were covered in flame, and, Christ, it was moving, reaching for him and Sam, tongues of flame trying to get a taste of Winchester. The floor was getting hot; he could feel it through the soles of his boots.

There was nowhere to run. They were going to die.

At that exact moment, Dean's foot crashed through the now-weakened floor. He pitched forward, crashing down on his left knee while his right leg sank through the hole up to his thigh. The entire floor pitched forward, tilting wildly as its supports gave way.

Dean tried to hold on to Sam, but it was like Sam had suddenly been covered in grease. The baby slipped from his grasp, tumbling down the tilted floor and into the fire.

"NOOOOO!" screamed Dean, struggling to free himself. "SAMMY!!"

It wasn't bad enough that he had let his brother fall. Now he had to watch him burn.

Little Sammy's blanket had snagged on a piece of wood in the broken flooring, stopping the baby's slide not eight feet from where Dean had fallen. The fire had already broken through the floor, and it engulfed his brother in flames. The hole that held his leg wouldn't let go. It seemed like the more he struggled, the tighter the hole got, squeezing him like a Chinese finger trap. He reached out toward his brother, but it was no use. He couldn't reach, and Sam was burning.

"NO!" Dean screamed again. The baby was writhing in the flames, his high-pitched screams echoing off the walls, driving him mad. Dean stopped fighting and covered his ears and closed his eyes.

"This isn't happening. This can't be happening. This isn't how it happened. This is not how it happened. Sammy's safe. Sammy's safe, and he's gonna come get me. He's going to save me."

Dean wasn't sure where that last thought had come from, but once he said it out loud, he knew he believed it with his whole heart.

As if his mantra had broken some kind of spell, the screaming stopped. Dean opened his eyes, cautiously pulling his hands away from his ears.

What he saw next caused his stomach to lurch. Considering the things he had seen in his life, that was no small feat.

Baby Sam, flesh blackened and peeling, rolled with an impossible agility and then stood up, turning to face him.

"This can't be happening," Dean whispered, his voice tinged with terror, and he felt his body begin to shake.

The horror that was his baby brother began to slowly walk toward him, which just should not be because Sam hadn't been able to walk at that age. The soft flesh had completely burnt away from portions of his face, revealing a startling white and strangely untouched eyeball, eyelid completely gone. The flesh on the lower right side of the baby's face was hanging loosely from a thin thread of skin, Sammy's mostly toothless gums and jawbone visible through the gaping hole, tinged with soot and blood.

As the baby walked--_No way. Not fucking possible, _Dean's mind rebelled--toward him with all the motion of a full grown man, the piece of flesh fell off and floated to the floor, the skin dried out and crisped like an autumn leaf. Dean could hear the crackling of burnt skin as Sammy moved, and he couldn't stop the whimper that escaped from the back of this throat.

Sammy stopped directly in front of him, and they were face to tiny, burnt up face, thanks to Dean's leg keeping him stuck through the floor.

The baby smiled.

"The hell?" Dean whispered, pulling back in horror from the abomination that was not his brother, could not be his brother. He didn't know what was going on or who was fucking with him, but this could not be. This. Could. Not. Be.

Sammy reached up, and Dean couldn't stop those little, blackened fingers from touching his face. He swallowed the bile that rose at the smell of what he knew could only be cooked flesh.

"_Exactly_," Baby Sammy said, but it wasn't Baby Sammy's voice, because Baby Sammy couldn't talk. It was grown up Sammy's voice that came out of that ruined, horrific mouth.

The memories that had been hiding in the void came rushing back all at once, splitting his head with mind-numbing pain. Hunting with Sam. The demon. The death of his father. Sam's death. Selling his soul. Going to Hell.

_Hell._

He was in Hell.

Baby Sam lurched forward, wrapping his crisped little baby arms around Dean. What was left of crackled lips brushed Dean's ear, whispering "_Time to play_," before the baby burst into flame, taking Dean with him.

He was burning. He could feel the fire burn away the hair on his head and face, feel it cause his skin to pop and sizzle. He could smell the stench of his own flesh cooking, and he realized that the screaming he heard was his own. For one horrifying moment, he wondered if this was what his mom had felt. Then there was no more room for thought; there was only pain.

He was in Hell. He was burning in Hell.

He knew that in the real world, he would've passed out by now, that his body would've mercifully turned off to spare him from the pain. But it didn't. It _wouldn't_. He could feel it. He could feel everything. He could feel the blood boiling in his veins, feel the meat falling off his bones. The agony was almost incomprehensible. It had to stop. There had to be some point where he would just shut down from the pain and pass into oblivion. But it didn't stop.

Dean Winchester screamed as he continued to burn.

* * *

Sam followed Charlotte across the hall to the living room, leaving the doors of the library wide open so that they could keep an eye on Dean.

As he trailed after her, he thought about how far he come to get to this point.

A month and a half ago, he'd been drowning in despair. He'd had nothing. Almost a year of searching, and it had all been for nothing. In six weeks, he would have to watch his brother die. Then one night, while Dean was out doing God knows what, he'd gotten a call. From Ellen.

Bobby had told Ellen about Dean's problem, and she'd been keeping an ear to the ground ever since. She'd been in a bar--a hunters' bar--similar to her own that had burnt down. One thing about a hunters' bar was that the hunters were a lot more loose lipped when they were surrounded by their own kind. They drank, they talked...probably more than they should. On that particular day, a few of them talked about a girl. A very special girl.

What Ellen had heard could've been mere rumor; she had been quick to point that out. She didn't want Sam to get his hopes up too much, but if there was the slightest chance it was true, she knew Sam would need to check it out.

She'd been right. When she'd told him what she'd heard, Sam had been skeptical at first. It shouldn't have been possible, really. They were supposed to be a myth. He'd never read of any actual accounts of them, just stories passed down from father to son, written by hand in journals much like his father's. There were no pictures, no stories, nothing, for almost a century. Until now. If it was true, then this girl was the one thing, the last thing, that could possibly save his brother.

A soulwalker.

Legend had it--though references to them were pretty obscure and it had taken Sam a lot of digging to patch together enough information--that soulwalkers were very rare, born maybe once every generation. From what Sam could gather, they were free spirits, in the literal sense of the term; their souls were not bound to their bodies, but could roam freely, kind of like astral projection, but it was more than that. It was said that they had power over all souls.

In some stories, soulwalkers were revered as the guardians of death, practically worshiped as gods. It was said that the soulwalker would gather the souls of the dying and escort them safely to the other side--Heaven or Hell, depending on the fate the soul in question deserved. Other stories cast them in a more malicious light, snatching souls from bodies and taking over the empty shell, possessing people much like a ghost or demon.

Sam Winchester had hoped the truth was more along the lines of the former than the latter, because he was going to Hell.

After months of research, Sam had finally come to the conclusion that the only way he would get his brother out of Hell was to go and get him. He didn't really need a soulwalker to accomplish the first part. It was simple to get into Hell, actually. Just sell your soul to any demon of the street, so to speak, and like that, you've got a one-way ticket to the pit. But that was the problem; it was a one-way ticket. He needed a different way in, and a way out, for both of them.

Their way out was Charlotte Atherton--the soulwalker.

Once Charlotte and her father had finally agreed to listen to him, it had been a fight to get them to admit what Charlotte really was. Sam understood this; he knew that Clay Atherton was just trying to protect his daughter. But fortunately, for some reason he couldn't fathom, the girl was on his side.

Maybe it was due to that weird moment of connection, when he'd first laid eyes on her. It had made him uncomfortable, because he'd felt something inside him stir at the sight of her (and, man, wouldn't Dean have had a field day with _that _comment). It was the power that he wasn't supposed to have any more, power that he didn't want, had never wanted. The thought that it might not be gone, maybe had never been gone, scared the hell out of him.

Whatever the reason, and despite the protests of her father, Charlotte had explained the truth--what she knew of it--of her powers.

Her soul could leave her body; that much of the legend was true. As for the rest of it… she didn't really know. She'd never really explored the true depth of her abilities. She told Sam that she could _see_ other souls, but she'd rarely interfered with them. She'd certainly never escorted one to the other side. She told him that she didn't know if she would be able to help, but she was willing to try.

So here they were, after a month of secret planning, about to take step two in his crazy-dangerous plan to save Dean. Not only was he going to risk his life, as well as his immortal soul, but he was going to risk Charlotte's as well--some poor, innocent girl that he really shouldn't be dragging into this situation.

He'd had doubts over the past month… so many doubts. Did he have the right to risk an innocent in order to save his brother?

All he'd had to do was look at Dean to know the answer to that question. Dean, who had never hesitated to put himself in danger if it meant saving another.

Sam may not have had the right, but he had the responsibility, and he was damn well going to live up to it. He would do what he could to keep everyone safe, and live with the consequences if he couldn't. He wasn't going to go through the rest of his life knowing that he had a chance to save his brother and didn't take it.

The living room was full of people, each one of them committed to seeing this thing through to the end. Charlotte and her father. Atherton's coven, who would lay down some heavy protection spells to bolster the salt lines and hex bags, in case Ruby, Lilith, or any of the demon horde sat up and took notice to what they were doing. Doc Gaffney. Bobby. Each and every one of them risking the wrath of Hell itself to save one man.

One man.

He was afraid that he was either losing it, or he was somehow channeling his brother from the other side, because Sam found himself thinking of a line from a movie. Here he was, was about to purposely send himself to Hell, and he was being assaulted by pop culture. One of the _Star Trek_ movies, he was pretty sure.

_The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few… or the one_.

Bullshit. The many could go fuck themselves for once. It was time for the Winchesters to be a little selfish. They'd get back to seeing to the needs of the many once this was all over.

"Let's do this," Sam said, squaring his shoulders as he planned to take on Hell itself.

* * *

Sam was tied to a chair.

He took slow, even breaths, forcing himself to stay calm, even though his body's instinctual reaction was to panic. There was no need to panic. He was there by choice. The restraints, as well as the ring of salt in which it sat, were for protection; not so much his protection, because he was about to let himself get possessed by a demon, but everyone else's.

No need to panic.

He would have laughed at the complete absurdity of his situation if he hadn't been afraid that he'd end up screaming.

Several wires ran from his head and chest to the equipment sitting at the base of the chair, which would monitor his life signs. Charlotte, sitting nearby on the couch, was hooked up to a monitor as well. Doc Gaffney would keep a close eye on their bodies while their souls were otherwise occupied.

His palm hurt from the cut Clay Atherton had made there. Charlotte had a similar cut on her hand. Though some may have scoffed at the "blood brothers" type ritual, Sam knew that blood was a powerful thing. It would help connect them, bind them together the way nothing else could.

Blood called to blood. It was what he was counting on.

Dean's amulet was wrapped around Sam's cut hand. Sam had made a point to smear some of his blood on the tiny piece of metal, hoping to increase the connection to his brother. He had downplayed to Dean how hard that part of it would be, the actual _finding_ part. He was pretty sure, with Charlotte's help, that he could get into Hell without too much trouble, and that she could pull them back. It was the in between that worried him--finding Dean's soul once he got there. He was hoping that their connection as brothers would be enough, but the amulet, which Sam envisioned as holding a tiny fleck of Dean's soul, was sort of his back up plan. He had no idea if it would work, but it certainly wouldn't hurt.

While Bobby had been securing Sam and the Doc had gone about his work, Clay's coven had begun their spell. They had spread out, covering the four points of the compass, their chant weaving a layer of protection over the house.

Bobby stood over Sam, book of rituals in hands, conflicted. He was all for saving Dean's soul, but the risk…. If something happened to Sam, or the girl, for that matter, he'd never be able to forgive himself.

"Don't back out on me now, Bobby," Sam drawled, raising his eyes to stare up at the older man.

Bobby straightened, unnerved at the boy's perceptiveness. "Let's get this show on the road, then. Time's a wastin'."

"So, you're really going to do this?" Gaffney asked, his voice tinged with fear and disbelief. "You're really going to call a demon to possess him?" The memories of his son's possession still haunted him.

"That's what we're goin' to do, Doc, and if you can't handle it," Bobby said, his gaze intense, "I suggest you wait in there with Dean. Atherton can watch the monitors."

The doctor felt a wave of shame roll over him. His eyes flicked to Charlotte, so small and delicate, sitting calmly, if a little wide-eyed, on the couch. If she could deal with this, then so could he. "No," Gaffney said, shaking his head. "I'll stay. I can handle it."

Bobby gave the doctor a look that he'd damn well _better_ handle it before turning to Charlotte. "You ready?" he asked, softening his voice. He almost felt like if he spoke to harshly, he might bruise her or something.

Charlotte took a deep breath, though Bobby noticed that it wasn't too deep, like her lungs didn't have the strength to take a full breath. She turned and lay down on the couch, folding her hands over her stomach, while her father hovered watchfully at her side. "I'm ready," she replied quietly, staring at the ceiling.

"All right," Bobby said, and took a deep breath of his own. He crouched down to light the candles and incense inside the circle with Sam, careful not to disturb the line of protection. Then he backed away, sparing one last look at the young man who was like a son to him and hoping that it wasn't really the last. He turned the book in his hands around, holding it open so Sam would be able to read the summoning ritual. "You're on, kid."

Sam closed his eyes for the briefest moment, sending up a silent prayer. Then he opened his eyes, swallowed his fear, and began to chant.

Sam's words filled the room, resonating with power. At first, nothing happened. Sam continued to chant, and the pungent smell of incense became overpowering. As time passed, his voice got a little more desperate, and everyone in the room got a little more tense. Then, just when Sam was about to give up and stop chanting, a black cloud materialized out of nowhere, directly in front of him.

Sam gripped the arms of the chair and gritted his teeth, bracing himself. He heard the monitor below him begin to beep wildly as his heartrate skyrocketed.

The black mass rushed at him, aiming directly at his chest. Sam closed his eyes and prepared to be invaded, but the demon didn't take him. It passed around his body, flowing over him, seeking entry. Unable to find it, the thing flew off him and at the nearest target--Bobby.

It smacked right into the ring of protection around Sam. It began to rush wildly around the circle, creating a whirlwind affect around Sam, his hair blowing wildly.

"It's not working!" Sam yelled, fighting to get his voice to carry over the wind tunnel he now found himself in.

Bobby watched the demon whirl around Sam, frowning, until his eyes widened as it hit him. "Sonofabitch!" Bobby cursed vehemently, feeling like a complete idiot. He spun the book in his hands around, flipping to a bookmarked page, then quickly read the incantation to dispel the demon.

The demon seemed to implode, black cloud drawing in on itself until it disappeared with a loud screech of protest.

Sam sat in the chair, arms still bound and breathing heavily, his hair hanging in his eyes. Everyone else in the room look shell shocked, except for Bobby, who just looked extremely irritated.

"What the hell happened?" Sam asked, raising his head to look to Bobby for the answer, like he'd done so many times since his father had died.

"We've become complete idiots, that's what happened."

"What?" Sam asked, face scrunching in confusion.

Bobby didn't answer. He just stepped forward and ripped Sam's shirt open, exposing the tattoo that protected Sam from demonic possession.

Sam rolled his eyes heavenward, head falling back to smack against the back of the chair. "Sonofabitch."

"I don't understand," Charlotte said, sitting up and tucking her feet under her.

"Sam here's had a bad experience or two with possession. That tattoo on his chest is protection against it," Bobby said, gesturing toward the symbol over Sam's heart. "We sorta forgot about it."

"So this whole thing is not going to work?" Clay interjected, and he was unable to hide the excitement in his voice. He desperately wanted this thing to end before it could begin, and there would be no risk to Charlotte or any of them.

"I didn't say that," Bobby drawled, and he turned to look at Sam. The two of them shared a look, silently communicating much in the way that Sam and Dean always had.

Sam shifted in the chair, gripping the arms of it until his knuckles were white. "Do it," he said through clenched teeth.

Gaffney had watched the silent exchange between Bobby and young Sam, head swinging back and forth like he was at a tennis match. "Do what?" he asked, uneasy with the sudden tension in the air. "Do _what_?" he asked again, his voice going up in pitch as he watched Bobby advance toward Sam.

He heard Charlotte gasp when Bobby pulled a knife from the sheath at his back.

The doctor surged forward, grabbing Bobby's wrist. It took all of hunter's restraint not to react. An unconscious doctor would be no good to them. "You best let go my hand, Doc."

"You can't seriously be thinking about cutting that off of him!"

On the couch, Charlotte nodded her agreement vehemently, bottom lip trembling slightly at the thought of the knife slicing into Sam.

"Look!" Sam snapped, straining against the bonds that kept him from intervening. "We don't have time for this. My brother is burning in Hell, for Christ's sake! Bobby doesn't have to cut the whole thing off me, just a slice of it to mess up the pattern. It's no big deal. Just have some gauze and tape ready. I'll be fine!"

When Gaffney didn't release Bobby, Sam leaned forward and said, "_Please_!" The desperation in that one word was enough to make the doctor let go.

Bobby carefully stepped over the line of salt to stand in front of Sam. He leaned down, one hand on Sam's shoulder while the other hovered with the knife. "You ready?" he asked softly, not really wanting to do it but knowing that it needed to be done.

"Just do it, already," Sam said, staring blankly at Bobby's chest so he wouldn't have to look at the knife.

That strange, zinging pain shot through him as the knife cut into his chest, and a muffled, growling scream escaped through Sam's clenched teeth. Fortunately, Bobby kept his knives nice and sharp, so it was over quickly.

Sam closed his eyes and let his head fall back as he collapsed back into the chair, trying to breath through the pain. He heard Bobby snap, "Don't mess up the salt line," and it must have been to Doc Gaffney, because after a brief pause, he felt a square of gauze being pressed firmly against his wound. Sam flinched at the contact.

"Sorry," Gaffney murmured, grimacing. He'd heard their story, and had agreed to help, but he'd never really been prepared for the reality of what he might actually have to deal with. "This is going to scar," he added, taking refuge in his role as a doctor. If he could just focus on that part, he might be able to get through this night with his sanity intact.

"S'okay," Sam murmured, breathing finally starting to even out. "I'm used to it."

* * *

Once the Doc had finished patching up Sam's injury, they all took up their previous positions, ready to try it again.

Sam turned his head toward Charlotte. She was a lot paler now, and Sam could see a slight tremble in her hands. He decided to go over the plan with her one more time, hoping it would help calm her down.

"Once the demon possesses me, Bobby's going to start the exorcism. You wait until the last minute to jump in, okay? I don't want you having to deal with the demon any longer than necessary. Bobby'll signal you when it's time."

Charlotte nodded, unable to look at Sam. She kept telling herself that she could do this, she could do something good for once, make a difference. Something instead of just hiding behind four walls.

She knew the plan. She didn't need to hear it again. Once Sam was possessed by the demon, she would leave her body and enter Sam's. Then, with the three of them in one body, Bobby would exorcise the demon. Charlotte would bind Sam to her (helped by the blood they had shared), then latch on to the demon. She and Sam would ride the demon straight to Hell.

_Hell_. God, was she crazy?!

She finally raised her eyes, her gaze seeking out Sam. She let her eyes unfocus slightly, shifting to the other sight that was part of her gift. Then she could see it.

His soul.

It burned so brightly. She had never seen a soul burn as brightly as his. Everyone else in the room paled in comparison. One look at him, and she had known that she would do whatever he asked.

She wasn't in love with him. It wasn't something as trivial as a crush that made her bend to his will. Sam was special, and there wasn't enough special in this world. If his brother was anything like him, she knew that it was her obligation to do what she could to help save him, to save them both.

"I know what to do," Charlotte said, letting her eyes come back into focus and once again assuming her prone position on the couch. Once she was laying down, she turned her head to look at Sam. "Good luck."

The corner of Sam's mouth quirked upward. "You too," he replied. He took a deep, somewhat shaky breath to help clear his thoughts.

His brain was jumbled, thinking too many things at once, a thousand memories flashing before him as if he were about to die. He pushed the thoughts away. He was not going to die. He was going to save his brother. No one was dying today.

"Death shall have no dominion…" Sam whispered, a statement and a prayer all at once.

"What?" Bobby asked, leaning in slightly.

"Nothing," Sam dismissed, giving his head a shake. Those five words echoing in his head, he looked Bobby squarely in the eye and said, "Let's try this again."

* * *

Everything went as planned.

Sam summoned the demon and it took possession of him, turning Sam's eyes the telltale black. As Bobby began the exorcism, the thing inside of Sam caused his body to writhe and twist, fighting for freedom just as it was about to be snatched away. At the last moment, Bobby waved to Charlotte, giving her the signal to move.

Charlotte nodded, heart pounding with fear of what she was about to attempt. She closed her eyes, held her breath, and _shifted_.

Her body seemed to almost deflate, sagging into the couch as the life force that powered it left the premises. She was gone, in that other-space she traveled when leaving her body. She felt a strange push/pull to her right and turned toward it.

It was Sam's bright soul, struggling with the darkness that surrounded it.

She'd never seen a demon before. In this other-space, she could not only see it but _feel_ it. Its malevolence repelled her, much as Sam's purity called to her. She hesitated for moment, then realized that she had no time for hesitation, no time for fear. The demon was about to be expelled. She gathered her courage, then launched her soul at Sam.

Sam's body bucked at the additional invasion. Inside, Sam felt the demon's attention lesson as it shifted toward Charlotte. He wasn't sure really how he did it, maybe just thinking it was enough, but he mentally wrapped himself around the thing, trying to keep it occupied and away from Charlotte until Bobby could finish. He felt the tension building, and he knew the exorcism rite was almost complete.

They were running out of time. Sam wasn't really sure if she would understand him in whatever metaphysical plane this was, but he screamed, "Do it!", hoping Charlotte would understand.

She must have, because all of the sudden, he felt her presence wrap around him, surrounding both him and the demon. It was an almost suffocating feeling, to have both the demon and Charlotte wrapped around him. He would have panicked, but there was no more time.

Blackness swallowed them up, and they were pulled--demon, soulwalker, and Winchester--in what felt like in a thousand directions at once. Moving at breakneck speed, across time and space, as Bobby sent them straight to Hell.

* * *

A/N: I hope my vision of Hell did not disappoint. Kripke's Hell, though I'll admit it pained me to see Dean in such torment, was a little too Hellraiser for me. I envisioned a much more personal Hell, something meant to crush his soul, not just torture his body.

The song referenced in this chapter is, obviously, "What is and What Should Never Be" by Led Zeppelin.

I would consider it a kindness if you take a moment to review. Feedback is always appreciated.


	6. Soul Searching

No Dominion

By Inzane

Disclaimer: I do not claim Supernatural or its characters.

Summary: After a year of increasingly desperate research, Sam finally accepts that there is no way to break Dean's deal. But that doesn't mean he's giving up.

A/N: I felt the need, in this chapter, to sort of explain the yellow-eyed demon's obsession with Sam. It is, at least in my opinion, an unresolved issue, one that has been bothering me for quite some time.

Warning: More disturbing imagery. It is Hell, after all. Language is a given.

* * *

Chapter 6: Soul Searching

It was dark.

So dark, that, at first, Sam thought he had somehow gone blind. He blinked a couple of times and waited for his eyes to adjust, but they didn't. Couldn't. There was nothing to adjust to. It was as if light had ceased to exist.

It was worse than a cave, worse than any of the other dark places he had been. Here, the darkness had substance. It was thick and pervasive, pressing against him with an unnatural weight. His skin crawled.

Sam Winchester had faced evil before, but not like this. Not pure, concentrated evil.

His head began to spin, the sudden dizziness causing his body to sway. His stomach lurched, and he could feel beads of sweat pop out on his forehead. _Not good_. Maybe it was the separation from his physical body that caused it, but he didn't think so.

It was this place.

He took deep, even breaths, trying to push past the feeling. He found that, as soon as he focused on ignoring it, his head cleared. Curious, he let that focus slip, and was rewarded with another wave of dizziness.

_Bad idea_, he thought, stumbling a bit. He concentrated once more, and the vertigo subsided. _Okay. Stay focused. No problem. I can do this._

It was a good thing that he'd always been able to walk and chew gum at the same time.

Sam turned, arms stretched out and reaching in the dark, searching for Charlotte. It didn't take long to find her. She was on her knees behind him, curled into a tight ball. He started to take a step toward her, then stopped when his brain finally caught up and he realized that he could see her. Then he realized _why_ he could see her.

She was glowing.

The only light in the inky blackness seemed to be coming from inside of her. It was a soft, muted glow that barely penetrated the darkness, but at least there was something to relieve the unrelenting black.

They'd done it. They'd made it. Charlotte had brought them to Hell on the back of a demon.

The demon.

_Shit_. He should've thought of that, planned for it. He'd been so focused on finding a way into Hell that he hadn't considered what would happen once he got there. Hadn't considered the possibility of having to deal with one seriously pissed off demon.

Sam spun around, feeling a wave of dizziness as his concentration slipped. _Dammit,_ _focus! _His hands clenched into fists, wishing they could wrap themselves around a bottle of holy water or a shotgun full of rocksalt. He warily surveyed the blackness around them, but he didn't see anything. The light emanating from Charlotte was too dim. He was afraid he wouldn't see anything, until it was too late.

He was right.

The demon launched itself at him, straight out of the darkness. He knew it was coming before he actually saw it, sensing the movement in front of him. He braced himself, and suddenly the amulet around his hand flared, shining with bright, golden light. The light gave him a clear vision of his attacker, as it took him down. In Hell, the demon wasn't a disembodied cloud of smoke; it was a vision of horror, too terrifying and foreign for his brain to make sense of it.

Sam rolled with the demon, fighting to keep it away from him, but it seemed like the thing had hundreds of tendrils, each trying to coil about him like a snake. Every place it touched burned with a cold fire. He finally managed to shove the thing off him and roll to his feet.

He had yet to get his bearings when the demon launched itself at him again. He had no time to think, just react. His fist swung out instinctively. A millisecond after he'd launched the punch, he realized how completely stupid it was to take a swing at a demon_._ But he had no weapons, no holy water, no salt; all he had was himself.

Sam's fist connected, and there was a brilliant flare of light, so bright it blinded him as much as the darkness had. He heard a high-pitched screech, and he blinked rapidly to try to clear his vision, in case the thing was preparing for another attack. When he could finally see again, the demon was gone.

Breathing hard, Sam stood in the center of the nimbus of light, Dean's amulet blazing like a tiny sun, pushing back the darkness. As his breathing evened out and his heart rate returned to normal, the light slowly began to fade until there was just enough light to see by.

Sam looked down, holding out the hand that he had used to punch the demon, eyes wide with disbelief. He turned it, examining it as if it might have somehow transformed into something else. But it was just a hand. His hand, smeared with his blood and Charlotte's, Dean's amulet a light in the darkness.

"Jesus," Sam whispered, then jumped when the darkness around him constricted. _Interesting… _"Cristo," Sam said quietly, and the darkness writhed again. He could almost hear a scream, something just outside the range of human hearing. _Okay_, Sam thought. _Good to know_.

Behind him, Charlotte screamed.

Sam spun, thinking the demon had returned, or something else had come for them, but there was nothing. Nothing but Charlotte, curled in on herself, rocking back and forth with her eyes closed tight and her hands covering her ears.

"Charlotte!" Sam called out, closing the distance between them in two strides and coming to his knees beside her. His heart sped back up when he noticed the image of her was flickering, almost like a ghost. He tried to hold on to her, but she yanked herself away from him and continued to scream.

Sam grabbed her wrists and pulled, forcing her hands away from her ears... though he really wasn't sure how that worked here, the physics of it. Because they weren't really here, right? Not physically. It was just a representation of their bodies, a metaphysical manifestation of their souls. How was it even possible that he had hands to grab her with? This place was seriously messing with his sense of reality, but he didn't have time to try to figure it out. He had to calm her down, and he couldn't calm her down if she couldn't hear him.

"Hey. Hey. Easy now, you're okay. It's gone. We're okay."

Charlotte shook her head, refusing to open her eyes. "NO! Not gone! Can't you feel them? Can't you HEAR THEM?!"

So many souls in torment, so much evil. It was overwhelming. Her power had never been a blessing, but here… here it was a curse.

She could feel them all: a billion souls, pressing in on her, suffocating her. She couldn't handle it. She was freaking out. She knew she was freaking out, but this was Hell, for God's sake. How could you not freak out? She tried to get a grip, help Sam, but she couldn't. She _couldn't_. There was too much, and she was going crazy.

"Charlotte!"

Sam shouted her name, accompanying it with a hard shake, but she refused to open her eyes. He planted his hands on the sides of her head and forced her to face him, but she kept her eyes screwed tightly shut, and short of prying them open Clockwork Orange-style, he couldn't get her to look at him.

Sam's brain reeled, frantically searching for some way to get through to her. When she started to keen softly, he began to fear that she might pull them out of Hell, send them crashing back into their bodies without having a chance to search for Dean.

Charlotte was no hunter. She hadn't led the life he had lived, or seen the things that he had seen. Barely twenty years old, she was practically still a child. An innocent. And he'd asked her to face the horrors of Hell.

She'd come, willingly. Having the will to do something, however, was not the same thing as having the ability to do it.

"Open your eyes," Sam said softly, running a hand over her hair to help soothe her.

It hardly seemed possible that she could close her eyes tighter, but she did, giving her head a tight shake of refusal. Dammit, how was he going to get through to her if she wouldn't even look at him? "Come on, Charlotte, look at me."

"No." Charlotte shot back, shaking her head again.

"Fine," Sam growled, frustrated. They didn't have time for this. "Don't look at me. But you can listen, right? _Right_?"

"Yes," Charlotte whispered shakily, as if she wasn't really sure of her answer.

Sam bit his lip, hoping for sudden inspiration. "How strong is the connection between us?" Sam blurted as an idea struck him.

"What?" she asked, eyes snapping open for a moment in surprise then slamming closed again.

"The link, whatever you wanna call it, between us, can it hold if we're separated?"

Charlotte frowned, eyes still closed. "I… I don't…"

Sam grabbed her shoulders. "If you go back, leave me here and go back, can you pull me back from there? Pull _us_ back?"

"I… think so."

"I need you to be sure!" Sam snapped as his fingers tightened convulsively against her shoulders. He felt guilty about handling her roughly, but this was a do or die situation, here. He didn't have time to play nice.

Charlotte stilled, trying to block out the miasma of evil and torment that was assaulting her senses. She reached her senses toward Sam, and found what could only be described as a thin rope, tying herself to him. It seemed too fragile, it would never hold, but when she concentrated on it, she found the rope became thicker, gaining substance. The more she focused, the stronger it became, until it was a thick cable. It could hold. She would make it hold.

"Yes. Yes, I can do it."

"Then go," Sam said, before he could change his mind. By telling Charlotte to leave, he just might be condemning his and his brother's souls to Hell.

"How will I know when to pull you back?"

Sam bowed his head for a moment, thinking. There would be no way to send a signal, no way to let her know when he'd found Dean. He'd just have to pick a time and hope for the best. "Give me four hours."

Charlotte nodded, biting her bottom lip. "Sam… I'm sorry," she said, hating that she wasn't strong enough, hating that her desire to do something meaningful for once in her life had crashed and burned practically before it got of the ground.

Sam shook his head, denying the need for apology. It wasn't her fault. At least she'd tried. "Just go."

Charlotte slowly pushed Sam away. She took a deep breath, then reached out with the power inside of her, seeking out her own body. She panicked for a moment, mentally flailing, when she couldn't feel it at first. But then it was there, the anchor at the end of a very long chain, tying her to the physical world. She said a silent prayer for Sam, and then, with one, concentrated mental push, shot herself up and out of Hell.

* * *

His watch had stopped. Even if it hadn't, he wasn't sure if he could have counted on it, anyway. It wasn't really a watch, after all, just like it wasn't really his clothes that he was wearing, and it wasn't really Dean's amulet wrapped around his hand. It was all just part of the metaphysical representation of the soul of Sam Winchester. He figured he looked like he always had because that's they way he _thought_ he should look.

Who knew if what he thought he looked like was what Dean would see once he finally found him? Maybe Dean would see what Dean wanted to see, which might be completely different than what Sam saw when he looked down at himself. What if he couldn't recognize Dean, or Dean couldn't recognize him?

_What if, what if, what if_…. He could keep at it forever, and thinking about it was starting to make his head hurt, so Sam decided he wouldn't think about it anymore. No point in worrying about things that you couldn't change, especially when he needed all of his brain power for something else.

Finding Dean.

He'd told Charlotte to give him four hours. He had no idea if it would be enough. It felt like he'd been in Hell for an eternity already, though he was pretty sure that it had only been about fifteen minutes or so.

He suspected that time might flow differently, here in Hell, if it even flowed at all. He didn't want to think about what that meant for Dean.

Once Charlotte had gone, Sam closed his eyes and tried to get a sense of his brother. He focused on the amulet wrapped around his hand, envisioning--and believing with everything he had in him--that it really was a part of Dean's soul. It was a light in the darkness, and it would lead him to his brother.

"_Dean_," he whispered. Searching. _Reaching_.

Sam felt something inside of him shift, and he opened his eyes. He swayed as a wave of dizziness and nausea crashed over him. As he fought to regain his focus, he felt something wet trickle from his nose down over his lips. He reached a hand up gingerly to touch it, then pulled his fingers away to look at them.

Blood.

He'd done… _something_, and whatever it was that he'd done, his head didn't like it. At least it wasn't a mind-splitting headache like he'd had with his visions, though. That would have been a problem.

Sam raised his eyes to look around him, astonished by what he had done. The world (dimension_, _mindscape_, _whatever you wanted to call it) around him had changed. It struck him with a strange sense of déjà vu.

He was standing on the edge of a small lake, surrounded by tall evergreens and bare trees. He knew this place. He'd been there before, he was sure of it, but the details of the memory were just beyond his grasp.

"Dean?" Sam called out, hopeful yet wary. He scanned his surroundings, searching for any sign of his brother. Dean was here, somewhere; he could feel it.

He blinked several times as his vision was blocked by drops of moisture on his eyelashes. He looked up.

It was snowing. In Hell. It was snowing in Hell.

He barely had a moment to grasp the absurdity of it when a column of flame burst in front of him, its shape vaguely human-like. He took an involuntary step back, but the thing followed, looming over him.

A face molded itself out of the flame and stared at him--through him, into him--until Sam almost crumpled under the violation.

"You're not… supposed… to be here," the fire-demon said without moving its lips, sending the thought screaming directly into Sam's head, echoing until he thought it would split in two. Then the demon flew at him, crashing into his chest and sending him flying backwards into darkness.

* * *

Dean Winchester sat on the steps to the porch of the house, head bowed, looking at his hands. Those hands were shaking, covered in blood. Blood that, even as he stared at it, slowly seeped back into his skin as if it had never been.

Back to status quo.

The blood-red sky loomed above as wind that wasn't wind whispered to him, calling his name. Dean closed his eyes and covered his ears, because he didn't want to see it, didn't want to hear it. Not again.

It always started this way, at the house.

Dean had watched Sam die so many times that he had lost count. Each and every time, he could almost save him, and each and every time he would fail. His own death would follow, horrific and painful, but it was easier then watching--_letting--_Sam die.

Then it would start all over.

He could feel the pain of his last death, even though his body was once again intact. He could feel where the werewolf had clawed open his flesh, could still feel where sharp teeth had ripped into his stomach as it had eaten him alive. It hadn't even bothered with fava beans or a nice Chianti when it had dined on his liver.

A bark of a laugh escaped his lips, and he was fully aware that it was bordering on hysteria. When you started laughing at your own horrifically gruesome death, you were definitely moving into the land of crazy. A shiver ran through him as pain flared through his shoulder, where the beast had torn off his arm like it had been a chew toy.

If it had just been that, he could have dealt with it. For a while, anyway. But it had eaten Sam. He had tried to protect his brother, and he couldn't. He'd failed, just like he always failed. A tiny part of him tried to remember that he hadn't failed, that it wasn't Sam, none of them had been, and that this was all just part of being eternally damned, but it wasn't working. His brain was muddled, confused to the point where he couldn't be sure what was real anymore.

_Dean_…

"Shut up," Dean whispered harshly. He began to hum Metallica's _Hero of the Day_—which was perversely ironic, considering that he wasn't a hero, hadn't been able to save Sammy, not once. Not matter how hard he tried, though, he could still hear it.

_Dean…_

He hummed even louder.

_Help me.… Dean…. _

"You're not Sam," Dean yelled, hunching in on himself and shaking his head, desperately holding on to that one, important belief. Trying to convince himself that it was true. "NOT SAM!!"

_Dean… please…._

With a growl, Dean surged to his feet and stepped off of the porch, knowing that he would not be able to resist Sam's call any more than he could stop what was about to happen.

As soon as his feet hit the sidewalk, he was somewhere else.

It was cold. He was standing alongside a frozen lake, in snow up past his ankles. Sam was standing beside him, about 11 this time, still sporting baby fat and that ridiculous mass of floppy hair that for some reason, Dad had always let the kid get away with.

They were out when they shouldn't have been. Dad was still on a hunt, gone for a couple of days now, and they weren't supposed to leave the house after dark. But it was snowing, and Sam had found a sled some local had put out with the trash, and he'd begged and pleaded and used the infamous puppy-dog eyes of doom until Dean had relented.

They'd lost control and tumbled off, and the sled had slid out onto the lake, about twenty feet from the shore.

When Sam stepped out onto the ice to go after it, Dean remembered what had happened, that night, in the dark and the snow.

Sam had fallen through the ice. Dean had managed to pull him back up, and they had returned home, soaked and chilled to the bone, to find that Dad had come home early. And he'd been pissed.

So when ten-year-old Sam stepped out onto the ice, Dean knew what was going to happen. He folded his arms and stared out across the lake, determined not to play the game this time. When the ice cracked and Sam fell through, Dean stood there and did nothing. When Sam called out his name, pleading, in that pre-pubescent voice, Dean ignored him.

"NotSam. NotSam. NotSam," Dean repeated over and over, arms wrapped around himself tight as he fought the pull that NotSam's voice had on him. But he couldn't stop his eyes from turning toward the sound of that voice.

Sam--_NotSam!--_was struggling, splashing weakly as the cold sucked the strength from his limbs. He went under, then came back up, gasping and choking and calling Dean's name.

His struggles slowed, then stopped. His head sank under the surface, small hand reaching out one last time toward the person who should have been his savior.

Something inside of Dean broke. He stripped off his jacket and flew over the ice, knowing that this was going to end badly but unable to stop himself. He was almost to the point where Sam went under when the ice beneath him disintegrated.

The water was cold, colder than it should have been, so cold that it burned. It should have numbed his senses, but it didn't, and he knew that it wouldn't. No matter how hard he fought it, there was nothing for him but pain and death and more pain.

_No. Sam's coming for you. He's going to save you, _he thought, but he was no longer sure if he believed it.

Dean kicked his feet and tried to swim back up to the surface, but came to a sudden halt when he smacked into several inches of hard ice. It had reformed above him, no longer weak and brittle, but as solid as a rock. He pounded his fists against it, but it would not give.

He spun, looking for another way out. His lungs were beginning to burn. Just at the point where he should've passed out, wished he could pass out, a figure began to float up from the depths, strangely luminous, like one of those weird, glowing fish he'd seen on the Discovery channel once when he'd been bored and channel surfing.

It was Sam--little, eleven-year-old Sam--skin turned blue and eyes glazed white in death. Although he'd only been under the water for a minute, his flesh had begun to decay, peeling from his body as if he was shedding his skin. His hand reached out toward Dean, begging to be saved.

Then another dead Sam came, and another, and another, floating up from the depths until he was surrounded by Sams, staring at him with dead eyes and silent accusations.

Dean pounded against the ice one last time, but it was no use. He felt one of those small hands wrap around his ankle, as cold and hard as iron, and it dragged him down, deeper and deeper, until he couldn't hold his breath any more. He closed his eyes and gave himself up to the inevitable.

Icy water rushed into his lungs, and he was drowning, dying, _again_, once more unable to disconnect himself from it. His heart wasn't pumping and there was no air to breathe, and an army of dead Sams were pulling him down into the dark.

He would've screamed, but he had no air for it. He tried anyway, face a rictus of silent horror as he screamed for the end he knew would never come.

* * *

Sam awoke with a jerk, bolting upright. His head spun for a moment, but he was quickly able to banish the feeling. The longer he was here, the easier it was for him to block out whatever it was that was messing with his senses.

He looked around, almost afraid of what he might see, or worse, what he wouldn't. He'd been close. He'd felt it. But that demon had shown up and kept him from finding Dean. Now, the frozen lake was gone, and there was no sign of the fire-demon, or Dean. But he wasn't alone.

Nearby, two small demons--who almost looked like children except their skins were a shiny, oily black--clawed at a man who was jerking under their attack, curled into a ball to present as small a target as possible.

Once again, Sam didn't think. He just acted.

"Cristo!" Sam spat, putting not only his anger, but all of his belief in the word. The demons flinched, but they did not let go of the man.

He couldn't just stand there and watch them rip someone apart. "Get off him!" Sam yelled, and he rushed at the demons, swinging his fists.

The things jumped off the man, movements catlike as they avoided his blows. Once at a safe distance, they paused and tilted their heads, so perfectly in unison that Sam suspected that they were actually one being, not two. Looking at him. Assessing.

And then they were gone, hissing as they faded into the darkness behind them, becoming a part of it. Sam really wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing, but he was leaning towards bad. They'd given up too easily… which probably meant they'd gone to get a few friends.

"How did you do that?"

Sam turned at the sound of the shaky voice, which had come from the man, who was now huddled on the floor, shivering.

"You… you made them go away," the man added, eyes wide with awe. "How did you do that?"

Sam let out a deep sigh. "I don't really know."

"Are you an angel?"

Sam laughed and shook his head. "I'm just a guy."

The man's face crumpled in confusion. "But then… how can you be here? How come you're not…" He trailed off, closing his eyes at the memory of endless torment.

Sam shrugged. "It's a long story."

With sudden quickness, the man surged forward, eyes wild. "Can you get me out of here? I don't deserve to be here. I didn't mean to hurt them." The man's eyes unfocused, and his pleas degenerated into crazed babbles. "They were so pretty… so pretty. Wasn't my fault… couldn't help it, couldn't… Take me with you. Out of here, we'll get out, get me out…"

Sam shook his head as he backed away. The amulet against his hand pulsed with the beat of his heart. This man hadn't lost his soul in a deal with a demon; he had earned his place in Hell. "I'm sorry. I can't."

Just as the man lunged forward, fingers claw-like and reaching for Sam, something surged out of the darkness behind him. It was like the darkness itself had come alive, wrapping itself around the man's body and pulling him, screaming, back into the void.

Sam continued to back away, heart pounding, wondering if the darkness would come for him next.

It didn't. He was beginning to think that maybe it couldn't.

He hadn't earned his place in Hell. He'd forced his way in, with Charlotte's help, and maybe that changed the rules. Maybe, because he wasn't supposed to be here, Hell had no power over him. It was wishful thinking on his part, he knew--remembering how the fire-demon had forced him away from the frozen lake. In his heart, Sam knew the real reason.

Power. He could feel it inside of him. It wasn't gone; it had never been gone, just dormant. In this place, without the encumbrance of his physical body, he could no longer deny that it was there. He no longer wanted to deny it.

It was different. Stronger. It was _right_.

The yellow-eyed demon had tried so hard to bring him over to the dark side. For a long time, he'd been afraid that the power inside of him was what would push him over the edge, turn him evil. That was why he'd always been hesitant to use it, why he had never explored what he could really do. Instead, he'd shoved it into a little corner inside of himself and tried to ignore it.

Ever since Cold Oak, Sam had believed that Yellow-Eyes had been the one to give him his powers. He'd seen the demon stand over his cradle and give him its blood, and he had assumed that it was this that had made him something more. Using it would be like accepting the demon and all it might offer. But what if that wasn't it? What if he'd always had the power--him, and the other kids like him--and that was why the demon had wanted him so badly? Because it needed him, and his power.

That was it. Sam was sure of it. It didn't matter if it was the truth; his faith in it would make it so.

The power inside him was not demon born. It was his, and it was pure. He wasn't tainted by a demon. He was one-hundred percent Sam Winchester, destined to kick demon ass.

Sam smiled a little as he closed his eyes and reached out with his power, searching for his brother's soul.

* * *

He stood in a field of high grass, dead and brittle. The sky was blood-red, but the light was a paradoxical golden color, giving everything a strange hue. Colors seemed muted, so that he felt like he was standing in an old sepia-toned photo. The amulet strapped to his hand pulsed, and he felt a tug, like it was trying to pull him in the right direction. Blood streamed from his nose.

Sam wiped absently at the blood as he turned slowly in a circle. He froze, heart suddenly in his throat.

There was a house in the distance. He knew that house. It was the one their mother had died in. It shouldn't have been there. It should have been in the middle of suburbia, not transplanted in the middle of a field of dead grass under a bloody sky.

Sam started to walk, then jog, as the amulet around his hand began to pulse steadily, like a homing beacon.

He was so focused on looking for any sign of Dean that he didn't watch where he was going. His foot caught on something, and he stumbled, crashing to the ground.

He rolled over to look, and he let out a gasp of horror at what he saw.

It was a body. A baby. Black and crisped, burnt so badly that it was barely recognizable as human. He'd tripped over a dead baby.

Sam scrambled backwards, away from the tiny corpse. Then he felt something wet and his hand slipped, sliding out from under him. He almost didn't turn, didn't look, but he couldn't stop himself, and his body twisted until he could see what it was.

Somebody's insides, on the outside. A mass of blood and intestines and other things, spilling out from a ruined stomach. The corpse's eyes had not yet filmed over, and they stared blankly up at him from a pale, bloodless face.

His eyes. His face.

Sam let out an inarticulate cry as he sprung to his feet, backing away from the sight of his own dead body. This could not be good.

He swallowed hard and tried not to freak out, but it was seriously hard not to freak out when you just slipped in your own intestines. He forced himself to look away from the carnage, still feeling the tug that was pulling him toward the house. _Dean. Remember Dean._ He started walking again, warily scanning the ground with each step.

The bodies were sparse at first. The closer he got to the house, the more bodies littered the ground, until they were piled thick--a carpet of blood and flesh.

They all had his face.

Every single one of the bodies had his face. They were different ages, some young, some as he was now--Sam Winchester throughout the years, dead hundreds, maybe thousands, of times. Burned, skinned, eaten, ripped apart... death after gruesome death, and each one his own.

This was Dean's Hell. To watch his brother die, over and over. The worst possible Hell.

Sam closed his hand around Dean's amulet, focusing on his brother and pushing aside his own bad memories. He couldn't let his feelings get in the way right now. He had work to do.

So he pushed onward, ignoring the fact that he was stepping on the remains of bodies that shared his face. He kept his eyes on his destination instead of the path he had to take to get there. He was so focused on the house itself that it took him a moment to process Dean's sudden appearance on the front porch. One minute, there was nothing, and then the next, his brother flashed in like a ghost, just suddenly there. Covered in so much gore he was barely recognizable.

The amulet pulsed hot against his hand.

"Dean!" Sam called out, but he was still too far away. He began to run, stumbling over the bodies in his way.

* * *

He was covered in blood. Sam's blood. His own blood. It plastered his hair to his head and soaked through his clothes to the skin. It pulsed from the torn carotid artery in his neck, were the vampire had ripped it open, then stepped. For a moment, he was dead. Then his heart started beating and the wound on his neck started to knit back together, blood seeping back into his skin.

Back to status quo.

He'd been helpless to stop the bloodsucker from ripping Sam's head off, helpless as the bastard had hung Sam's body from the rafters, and Sam's blood had rained down on him from above. Helpless.

Now he was back on the porch. The motherfucking porch of the motherfucking house in a motherfucking field of dead Sams. Each and every one of them a reminder that he had failed. His latest failure was lying at his feet. In two pieces. Must not be any more room in the field.

Dean sank to his knees next to the most recent dead Sam, defeated. He'd tried to fight it, to keep reminding himself that none of this was real, but he was tired. Too tired to fight; too tired to hope. He wished he could end all of this, just fucking die and stay dead, but that wouldn't work, because he _was _dead and this was Hell and he was never getting out of here.

"Dean!"

He heard Sam's voice, calling from the distance. Just like every other time he'd been on this porch. He closed his eyes. He couldn't face another dead Sam. Not again. His fingers tightened convulsively around the cold metal in his hand.

Wait. That wasn't right.

Dean opened his eyes and rolled his head so he could look down, only vaguely interested in the sudden change in plot. For some reason, they'd left him the shotgun this time. His favorite sawed-off, which had been useless against the vampire that had torn Sam's head off. Fucking useless. It couldn't kill something that was already dead.

Couldn't hurt to try, though.

Dean tugged the shotgun up, shoving the barrel up under his chin. He'd beat them to the punch, this time.

* * *

Sam saw Dean sink to his knees in front of a body he knew would have his face, saw him put the shotgun under his chin. He screamed Dean's name, but his brother gave no indication that he'd heard him. The only thing Sam could do was run faster.

Sam was almost to the porch, only ten feet away, when Dean raised his eyes and they locked onto Sam's. Sam felt a surge of relief, but it quickly died as he looked into Dean's eyes. They were blank. Lifeless. There was no recognition there; no reaction at all. Sam had become part of the landscape, just one more little brother in a field of dead little brothers.

Dean put his finger on the trigger.

Sam stretched out his hand as he ran, focusing all of his will on reaching his brother. "Dean!" he yelled, and the word echoed all around him, resonating with power.

He saw Dean blink, and the blank looked cleared slightly, replaced by confusion. Dean's finger eased off of the trigger.

Sam's foot was about to hit the bottom step of the porch when his mind suddenly reeled. Then he was flying, rocketing at the speed of light, up and up and up until he thought he would pass out. Just when he thought he couldn't take it anymore, he crashed back down to earth. Back to reality. Back into his own body.

He sucked in a great, gasping breath, back arching off the chair, only the ropes that tied him to the chair keeping him in place. He crashed back down, feeling his heart thud painfully in his chest. He stared vacantly ahead as the full realization of what had just happened hit him like a sledgehammer.

Time was up.

She'd brought him back. Charlotte had brought him back.

Without Dean.

* * *

A/N: Thanks so much to all of you who have taken the time to leave a review. Reviews help keep my fingers flying over the keyboard.


	7. Once More into the Breach

No Dominion

By Inzane

Disclaimer: I lay no claim to Supernatural or its characters. The chapter title comes from a line from Shakespeare's Henry V.

Summary: After a year of increasingly desperate research, Sam finally accepts that there is no way to break Dean's deal. But that doesn't mean he's giving up.

A/N: I am a little creeped out by how easily Dean's gruesome death scenes have come to me. My imagination has taken a very, very dark turn. When this is all over, I'm going to write something nice and fluffy. There could be bunnies.

Warning: Stressed out boys bad language. More Dean abuse.

* * *

Chapter 7: Once More into the Breach

"Sam?"

Dean blinked several times, deep in the land of confusion. There'd been… something. Just a second ago. Someone there. Running toward him, reaching out. A man.

He'd looked like Sam.

Like Sam, but, of course, that wasn't saying much, considering he was surrounded by a thousand bodies with Sam's face. He'd watched each and every one of them die right in front of him. But there had been something about this one. Something… he wasn't sure what it was. Different. Better. Which was stupid, because one Sam was just like another, right? They came, they saw, they died horrible fucking deaths. End of story.

But what if it had been different this time? What if his brother really had come for him?

"Sammy?" Dean called out, voice unsteady and uncertain. He waited for an answer, but there was none, and the scene in front of him did not change. No one was there, now. Just a field of dead Sams and a blood-red sky.

No. It hadn't been Sam. Just another carbon copy. Probably would've joined his brothers in the field, if he hadn't poofed out of existence. And what the fuck was up with that? That didn't follow the game plan, now did it? There were rules. Didn't he know that there were rules? He should be ripped in two or eaten by zombies or implode or something, not pull some _I Dream of Jeannie _bullshit disappearing act. Unless...

Unless it had been Sam. _His _Sam. But if it had been the real Sammy, then something must've happened. Obviously, because Sam was gone, and he was still stuck in Hell. Maybe the girl wasn't as powerful as Sam thought, or maybe some big bad had intervened to stop his little brother from riding to the rescue. Whatever the reason, it was clear that something had gone wrong.

Of course, it could be that Hell was just screwing with him. Letting him build up a bit of hope just to tear him down all over again.

Dean ground his teeth together. If it was the former, he was pretty much fucked. Eternally. If it was the latter, then they'd have to score this round as Hell: 1, Dean Winchester: big fat 0.

Try as he might to resist, hope was a terribly seductive thing.

He let out a frustrated scream through his clenched teeth. It caused the barrel of the shotgun he'd forgotten he was holding to dig harder into the soft flesh under his chin. He froze.

Time to even the score.

"Fuck you," Dean said, and pulled the trigger.

* * *

"Send me back!"

The room was in pandemonium. Sam was furiously struggling against the bindings that still held him to the chair. Everyone was talking at once.

"Sam..."

"Send me back, right now, goddammit!"

"You need to settle down…"

"If he thinks he's putting my daughter through that again…"

"He was there! He was right there, Bobby! I almost…"

"Blood pressure's dropping…"

"Dammit, Sam, if you could shut your yap for half a minute, I could …"

"I have to go back. I have to go back right now, before he…"

"…pulse is thready..."

"Gaffney, what's going on? Is she…"

"Bobby, please!"

"Damn. She's in V fib."

"Oh my God. Charlotte…"

"Sonofabitch."

"Charging."

"Wait, what's going on…"

"CLEAR!"

The sound of the defibrillator discharging instantly shut everyone up. Charlotte's thin form, deathly pale and covered in a sheen of sweat, jerked under the current, then settled back down on the couch. The steady beep from the heart monitor rang out in the sudden stillness.

Gaffney examined the readings, then sagged beside the couch and ran a hand through his hair. "It's all right, now. We've got normal rhythm."

"I want her taken to the hospital," Clay demanded.

"I don't think we really need to…"

"What happened, Doc? Is she okay?" Sam asked, still struggling against his bonds, but Clay interrupted.

"No, she is_ not _okay! You almost killed her!"

"I didn't…"

"Yes, you did! You and your redneck friend and your stupid ritual!"

"Now, wait just a damn minute…" Bobby began, but Clay ignored him. His anger was focused on Sam.

"Do you have any idea of the amount of effort it took her to maintain the connection to you, much less pull you back? You could practically see the life draining out of her! Well, I've had enough of it, you hear me? Enough! I went along with it because it's what Charlotte wanted, but I'm done. I want you out of my house. _All_ of you," he added, and his eyes flicked to the room across the hall, where Dean Winchester's body quietly waited for its soul.

Sam's mouth fell open as he was shocked into silence. Bobby took a casual step toward Clay, which somehow managed to be threatening all the same. "Now, normally," Bobby drawled, "I'd say you were in the right, here. But you can't possibly be considerin' throwing a man in a coma out on his ass."

Doc Gaffney stood up and turned to Clay. "He's right. He's stable right now, but that could easily change if we attempt to move him. You can't…"

"Don't tell me what I can and cannot do in my own house!" Clay bellowed.

"But... he could die," Sam said quietly, still in shock. Things had gone from bad to worse in typical Winchester fashion.

"Better him than my daughter!"

"You... don't mean that."

At the sound of Charlotte's tired voice, all eyes went to her. She'd put a hand to her forehead, and her eyes were scrunched closed, as if battling a headache.

Clay moved over to the couch and sank down beside his daughter. He took her free hand in his. "Charlotte... honey... let me deal with this, okay? I need to do what's best for you. You can't take the strain."

"You can't..." She paused to catch her breath. "You can't send them away. I'm their only hope."

"Charlotte..."

"I won't abandon them. Please… don't ask me to do that."

"I'm not asking, Charlotte."

"I need to finish this."

Clay's face hardened. "I'm sorry, baby, but I can't let you."

Charlotte opened her eyes and stared up into her father's face. His breath caught in his throat. He felt a tingle in the back of his head--just a soft touch, a little push--to remind him of exactly who and what she was.

"You can't stop me."

She hadn't wanted to give him that push, to draw a line in the sand, but he'd left her no choice.

Clay swallowed hard. He didn't think his daughter would take control of him, wasn't sure if she really could, but the possibility was there. He didn't want to force her to test that possibility. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, unsure if he could trust his voice.

The others in the room had watched the little drama play out and had kept silent. Sam had bitten his bottom lip until he'd tasted blood, torn. He needed to save Dean. He had to. He was willing to endure just about anything to make that happen, but it was a bit harder to deal when it was clear that Charlotte was the one paying the price.

"One condition," Clay said, fully aware that he was in no position to make demands but hoping that Charlotte would humor him. He stood up and turned toward the other men in the room. "We don't do this again until tomorrow."

He looked down at Charlotte for confirmation, and, after a moment's hesitation, she nodded in silent agreement. She had hit the wall. She had nothing left, and they both knew it.

"Tomorrow..." Sam started to protest, but clamped his mouth down on it. There were dark circles under Charlotte's eyes, and her breathing seemed unsteady.

"She needs to sleep," Clay said. "If she'd going to risk herself for you again, you should at least have the decency to let her recover her strength."

Sam closed his eyes and nodded. "You're right. I'm sorry."

As Clay and Doc Gaffney helped Charlotte out of the room, Sam's mind raced. Part of him was screaming _Save Dean! Save Dean! Save Dean!_ But the other part, the logical part, knew that he had to wait. Charlotte was tapped out. If he pushed, he'd end up getting her killed, or end up stranded in Hell, or both.

Waiting: it was an easy concept to understand, but a hard one to accept. All he could see every time he closed his eyes was an image of Dean with a shotgun jammed under his chin.

"It'll be all right, Sam," Bobby said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "You'll get him next time."

"Yeah," Sam replied half-heartedly. He opened his eyes and looked down, tugging against the bonds that still held him. "You wanna untie me now?"

Bobby made a noncommittal noise and made no move to release him. Instead, he leaned slowly forward, bringing his head level with Sam's.

"Cristo."

Sam rolled his eyes and tugged hard against his bonds. "Jesus, Bobby, will you untie me, already? I'm me."

Bobby nodded, satisfied. "Just makin' sure, kid."

* * *

Dean groaned and tried to move, but he felt like his entire body was made of lead. Even his eyelids were impossibly heavy. His head agonizingly throbbed with each beat of his heart.

As the pain lessened and his senses gradually retuned, he felt something wet against his right cheek, where it pressed against the floor of the porch. He didn't have to open his eyes to know what it was. He knew that smell. Thinking he might regret it, Dean struggled to force his eyes open.

Yep. Should've kept 'em shut.

He was lying facedown in a thick pool of blood. There were little white-ish lumps scattered here and there, and jagged fragments of something that looked a lot like bone. It kind of reminded him of that time when he'd blown the head off of that nasty little chupacabra when he was …

Oh, yeah. Right.

Dean gingerly reached up to feel his head. He was surprised to find it intact, considering that it still felt like it was split in two. He'd take a hangover over this any day. He grunted with effort as he rolled himself onto his back. Blood covered the right side of his face and body. Something was sticking to his cheek, and he was pretty sure that something was a piece of his own grey matter.

"Eww."

Even as Dean reached up to pluck his own brains off his face, he felt it sink back into his skin. The blood under his head slowly absorbed back into his body, his skin soaking it up like a sponge.

He let his arm flop back to the floor with a thud. His head gave one final pulse of pain, then even that faded away.

Back to status quo.

Dammit.

Dean sighed and just lay there, contemplating the porch ceiling.

_Note to self--do not blow own head off with shotgun in future. Gross, and seriously fucking hurts._

Eventually, he managed to drum up enough willpower to roll his head and take a look around. The shotgun was gone. Headless Sam was still there on the porch, beside him. A ton of Sams waiting in the dead grass beyond.

_Dean…_

He'd been expecting it. Sam, calling for him like he always did. He expected the voice to come from off in the distance, like always. But it didn't. It came from the disembodied head right next to him.

Sammy's head. Hair matted with blood. White-filmed eyes blindly searching for him. Pale lips, moving ever so slightly, whispering his name.

Dean turned away and stared up at the ceiling again. His face remained slack. If you didn't know him, you might have thought that he didn't have any reaction at all, that he had become so jaded that even this new horror could have no affect on him. But that was far from the case.

_Dean… help me…_

Dean Winchester had faced every horror that Hell had thrown at him. He'd raged and he'd cried. He'd fought and he begged. He'd blown his own goddamn head off. There wasn't much left for him to do.

He laughed.

Laughed until he thought his sides would split, until tears ran down his cheeks and he was gasping for breath.

He didn't stop for a long, long time.

* * *

Sam leaned against the window in the library. His looked out at the well-manicured lawn, but he didn't really see it. He was too preoccupied with his own thoughts. Save for the soft beeping of the monitors attached to his brother, it was quiet.

This is how his life would be, without Dean. Quiet.

He was sick of quiet. He wanted pointless conversations about who was the hotter chick on Charmed, or the proper way to eat pizza (to fold or not to fold?). He wanted slightly off-key but enthusiastic sing-alongs with the Impala's radio. He wanted dirty jokes and brotherly insults and infectious laughter. He didn't want quiet. He wanted his brother back.

Sam glanced over his shoulder. Dean lay still in the bed, waiting far more patiently for the return of his soul than Sam was.

The younger Winchester turned back to the window and sighed. There was nothing he could do for now. Since everything he'd done so far had pretty much amounted to nothing anyway, there wasn't much change there. Dean was still in Hell, going through God only knew what, and he was stuck sitting around with his thumb up his ass. Some hero he was.

Sam clenched his fists, then gave a little yelp when one flared with pain. He opened his hand to find Dean's amulet, which had dug painfully into the cut in his palm. He'd forgotten it was there. Sam reached forward and gently, almost reverently, unwrapped the cord. He flexed his hand, wincing as the stiff skin around the cut on his palm protested.

He lifted the amulet by the cord, holding it up to the light. It didn't look like much--just a weird piece of metal on a battered leather cord. But it was far more than that. He could feel it, not just physically, but on some psychic level--like a low level hum in the back of his mind. In Hell, it had been his guiding light (though he would never tell Dean that; it sounded too damn corny). He prayed that it would hold true the second time around.

He reached up and settled the amulet around his neck. He hoped that by this time tomorrow, he'd be able to give it back to its rightful owner.

"Sam."

Sam turned at the sound of his name to find a pair of concerned eyes staring at him from under the brim of a beat up trucker hat. "Hey, Bobby."

Bobby moved into the room, eyes flicking briefly to Dean's body as he passed. He wondered how long a body could last without its soul. He hadn't said anything to Sam, because the kid was already on edge as is, but he couldn't shake the feeling that time was running out.

"The Doc's got Charlotte settled back up in her room. Said her vitals are back to normal, so he gave her a sedative to make sure she got some rest. Girl's pretty much worn out. Maintaining that link took a lot out of her."

Sam bowed his head and nodded. His brain was all mixed up when it came to Charlotte. Sure, he felt a healthy dose of guilt for putting her in this situation, which was clearly taking a toll on her body, but he was ashamed to admit that there was a good deal of resentment there, as well. He knew his resentment was unjustified, but he couldn't help it. She'd plucked him away just as he was about to reach his brother. How could he not resent that? It didn't matter that he knew it wasn't her fault; human emotions were fickle.

Bobby narrowed his eyes and took a hard look at Sam. "She's not the only one worn out."

Sam gave Bobby a look, one that not-so-subtly said back off. "I'm fine."

Bobby frowned. Damn stubborn Winchesters. "No, Sam. You're not fine," he said, using that same I'm-in-charge-here voice that he'd used when Sam was a still a snot-nosed little kid. "You got circles under your eyes the size of dinner plates, and you haven't slept a wink in three days. You've hardly eaten a thing, either, but I guess that'll solve the first problem when you pass out because you're too weak to stand on your own two feet!"

"I don't need…"

"Shut up, boy!" Bobby snapped, taking off his hat and smacking it angrily against his own thigh. "Did I say I was finished?"

Sam lowered his eyes, looking contrite and feeling like he was ten years old again. "Sorry."

Bobby softened a bit at Sam's apology. "You won't do your brother a lick of good by running yourself into the ground. You need to get some food into you and get some sleep."

"How can I do that, Bobby?" Sam replied hoarsely. "How can I eat or sleep when Dean's… when he's…" He trailed off, remembering what he had seen in Hell, just before he'd been snatched away.

"'Cause you're a smart man, Sam. It may not be what you wanna do, but it's what you need to do. You know that."

"I'm being stupid, aren't I?"

"You're entitled, once in a while." Bobby gave Sam a little poke in the chest. "Jus' don't make a habit of it."

This made Sam smile a little. "I won't." The smile quickly faded though as he looked over at his brother's body, brows knitting with concern.

Bobby could practically read his thoughts. Sam was an open book when it came to his brother. "Don't worry. I'll look out for him."

"Thanks, Bobby. I couldn't do this without you."

"Damn straight, kid," Bobby replied, snapping his hat back on his head. "Now git. I catch you up and walkin' around before six hours sleep, I'll beat your ass."

Sam's lips quirked as he tried not to smile at the empty threat. Bobby had never raised a hand to either one of them in his life, even though they'd given him plenty of cause over the years. "Yes, sir."

As Sam shambled off, hopefully in search of a sandwich and a bed, Bobby moved to stand at the foot of Dean's bed. Maybe he imagined it, but it seemed like the steady beep of the heart monitor was just a little bit slower than before.

"Just hang on, Dean. Sam's comin' for you. You hear? He's comin'."

Bobby hoped to God he'd be in time.

* * *

Dean had stopped laughing a long time ago. Now he was sitting on the porch steps of his childhood home next to Sam and his disembodied head, looking out over the field of dead Sams and waiting for something to happen. He'd been sitting there for hours. Days maybe. Who the hell knew anymore? Not like it mattered, anyway.

The Sam next to him still hadn't shut up.

"_Help me, Dean, help me, help me_," Dean said in a mocking, girly tone. "Can't you come up with something else? Something a little more stimulating, maybe?"

_Dean… please… help me…._

"No?" Dean asked, raising his eyebrows in question. He shook his head with disapproval. "Waste of a college education, if you ask me. Kids today."

Dean knew things were not good. He was talking to his dead brother's head, which was currently sitting about two feet from the rest of his dead brother's body.

He expected someone would be coming to fit him for a straightjacket pretty damn soon.

Dean turned to look down at the corpse next to him. Then it was like something inside of him clicked, and he suddenly knew what he had to do. He got to his feet.

With a few grunts and curses, he picked up Sam's body in a fireman's carry. He reached down and picked up the head and cradled it under his free arm, much like a football. A talking, dead-eyed football. He straightened and stared out into to field of bodies in front of him.

It was time to do something about the dead Sams.

* * *

Sam had done his best to choke down a ham and cheese sandwich, which had pretty much tasted like sawdust to him. Still, he ate most of it, because he knew he needed to, and because he really didn't want to give Bobby a reason to kick his ass.

He'd been tossing and turning on the bed in one of the Athertons' guest rooms for the past hour. He couldn't seem to get his brain to shut off. It was too preoccupied trying to think ten moves ahead, imagining every possible scenario and how to deal with it. Finally, the exhaustion of his body overrode his brain, and he fell asleep.

Thankfully, he was too tired to dream.

* * *

Sam's head was finally silenced. Dean had buried it, along with the rest of him. Him and three others, so far. It had taken a long time, because he didn't have anything but his hands to dig with, and the dirt was dry and hard packed. He could've looked in house for something to dig with, but he refused to go in that house. Ever. Not since that first time.

Dean shoved the last bit of dirt back over the most recent grave, then pushed himself to his feet. As he surveyed his handiwork, his hands hung limply at his sides, bloody and ragged. All of his fingernails were cracked or torn, and a few were missing completely. He didn't feel it. It was unimportant. What _was _important was that he bury Sam.

He looked out over a land filled with dead little brothers. It would take him forever to bury them all, but he was okay with that. It's not like he had anything better to do.

_Dean..._

Dean's head fell back and he closed his eyes. "_Fuck_."

The ground beneath his feet trembled. Before he could move, a hand shot out of the earth--Sam's hand--and clamped over his ankle. In an instant, he was pulled halfway under. His fingers scrabbled over the ground, trying to find purchase, but Sammy continued to drag him further down. He was buried to the middle of his chest when he felt sharp, burning pains shoot through his legs as Sam's fingers dug into the flesh, ripping in their need to pull him under. But still, he fought. As far gone as he was, he still fought. He didn't know how not to.

His entire body jerked hard, then stiffened. His eyes flew wide as he felt dead fingers, driven by unnatural strength, puncture his flesh, digging in until they were able to wrap around the base of his spine. He felt his backbone snap and his spinal cord sever a moment before Sam dragged him down into the grave with one last, mighty heave.

Somehow, even as far gone as he was, he still found the will to scream.

* * *

Sam hadn't thought that he would sleep long, so it was a surprise when a small hand shook his shoulder gently to wake him.

"Wha...?" Sam muttered, rolling over and blinking lazily. He wondered at first why there was a woman sitting on his bed, especially one that looked like jail bait, but then he woke up the rest of the way and remembered where he was. "Oh. Hey, Charlotte. You feel any better?"

Charlotte nodded, though she didn't look much better than she had before. "I wanted to talk to you. Ummm... you know... without my father around."

Sam pushed himself to a sitting position, thankful that he hadn't bothered to take off his clothes. "Does he know you're here?"

She shook her head. "No. He doesn't want me to help you." She paused and looked down at her hands, which were clenched tight in her lap. "My father is a good man, Sam. He only wants to protect me. He means well, but sometimes I think he doesn't realize how trapped it makes me feel. For the first time in my life, I have a chance to make a difference. I won't give that up, no matter what the cost."

"Are you sure you want to do this again?" He couldn't believe he was asking the question, but he couldn't force her. Not after helping him had almost killed her.

She gave Sam a soft smile. "Yes. As many times as it takes." There must have been some hint of doubt on his face, because she narrowed her eyes at him. "I can do this, Sam Winchester. Trust me, I'm not as fragile as I look. It hit me hard because I wasn't prepared last time. This time, I'll be ready."

Relief flooded through Sam. He wasn't really sure if he believed her, but he would give her the benefit of the doubt. "Okay. As long as you're sure."

Charlotte's smile widened. "Let's go save your brother."

* * *

Dean jerked awake, racked by a fit of coughing and covered head to toe in dirt. He could taste it in his mouth, feel it weigh down his lungs; he coughed it out until it felt like a few internal organs just might come up with it. It was only after the coughing subsided that he realized he couldn't feel anything from the waist down.

He only had time for a moment of panic before he felt something inside him shift with a sharp crack. He cried out at the sudden, vicious pain that flared through him as his backbone snapped back into place.

He rolled over and shoved himself onto his hands and knees. Dirt fell from his body and disappeared before it had a chance to reach the floor. The pain pulsed white hot one last time, then faded away.

Status goddamn motherfucking quo.

Dean bent over, forehead to the floor. He took quick, deep breaths, but it didn't help. That one had been bad. Really, really bad. He didn't know why this death had bothered him more than the others. It had been rather tame, comparatively.

He wallowed in his misery for a while, then forced himself to get up. He stumbled off the porch and walked out into the field, dragging his feet. After a few steps, he stopped. It shouldn't have been possible for every single muscle in his body to sag at once, but Dean somehow managed it.

They were back. All of them.

All four of the Sams he had buried lay in a jumble of limbs, dead eyes staring up at him as if to say, _You can't hide what you've done_.

_Oh yeah?_ Dean thought. _Watch me_.

He sank to his knees and began to dig.

* * *

They were ready. Bobby and Sam had already gone around the house a second time, verifying the protections were still in place. Clay Atherton was busy pestering the doctor about Charlotte's vitals. Clay's coven was scattered about the house, back at the spellwork that would shore up the physical protections. They couldn't afford to have the bad guys sit up and take notice.

Bobby was about to pick up the book containing the summoning ritual when Charlotte placed a hand on top of it to prevent him.

"You don't need to summon a demon," Charlotte said with quiet command. "I know the way."

Bobby and Sam shared a look. Sam shrugged slightly, as if to say _Why not?_

Charlotte lay down on the couch, and her father moved to stand behind it, a nervous sentinel. Sam took his place in the chair, though this time Bobby didn't tie him. They all were silent as Doc Gaffney took a few minutes to hook Sam and Charlotte back up to the monitors. When he was finished, Sam wrapped a hand around Dean's amulet and closed his eyes, taking a brief moment to send up a silent prayer. When he opened them, he turned them on Charlotte. "You ready?"

"I'm ready."

"Two hours. Not a second before."

"I know, Sam." They had decided on two hours. He was pretty sure he knew where Dean would be, and how to use his power and Dean's amulet to get him there.

Sam braced himself for the invasion. "Okay, then. Do your thing."

Charlotte nodded, then closed her eyes. She took several slow, deliberate breaths as she mentally sought out the path. It wasn't hard. It was burned into her brain, tinged with the same wrongness that she'd felt in Hell. She knew it was something that she would have to live with for the rest of her life.

The way fixed firmly in her mind, she leapt toward Sam.

He felt her join him in his own body. He had expected the same sense of violation he'd felt when the demon had possessed him, but it wasn't like that. It was a joining--intimate, but not sexual. He could feel the purity of her soul, as it mingled with his, could feel her power.

She was beautiful.

He saw her the way no one else ever had, and though he didn't really have any romantic feelings towards her, he knew that he would never be able to look at her the same way.

Her soul enveloped him, like a caress. Then they were flying, rocketing down the path as Charlotte pulled him into Hell.

* * *

Dean was pretty much ready to admit that burying Sam had become an unhealthy obsession.

He'd lost count of how many times he had buried his brother. Enough that it had become sort of their routine, now. He'd bury his brother. Sammy (eager to do his part) would drag him down into the dirt. Dean would slowly suffocate and then--presto!--he'd be back on the porch coughing up his lungs and Sam would be magically unburied. Then they'd start all over.

He found it almost comforting, actually. Sure, it was some seriously fucked up brotherly bonding, but it was hard enough to squeeze in quality family time between all the death and dismemberment. You had to take what you could get.

He was on the downward spiral. He had no illusions about that. His insistence on burying his brother even though it didn't do a damn bit of good was what he believed Freud would call, using the technical term, _bat-shit crazy_.

It didn't really matter much, in the grand scheme of things. He couldn't _not_ bury Sam.

"This isn't so bad, huh, Sammy? Better than watching you die, anyway."

He was standing in the middle of a mass grave. It had taken a long time to dig this one. Weeks, probably. When he had finally gotten the grave big enough, he'd been too tired to climb out, so he'd just reached up and tugged the closest bodies down into the hole.

There were about eighteen of them, ranging from toddler to grown up Sam, down in the hole with him, surrounding him on all sides. Eighteen--that was probably enough.

He was about to climb out and begin the painstaking task of shoving the dirt back in when the bodies around him moved.

A twitch here, a slight shift there. Hands stretching out, reaching for him. Tiny, toddler-sized teeth sinking into his ankle.

"Sonofabitch," Dean muttered as he closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable.

He doesn't scream. Even as they rip him apart, he doesn't scream.

* * *

Sam was on his hands and knees, breathing hard as he tried to once again find the level of concentration that would block out the Hell-vibes that made his head spin and his stomach threaten mutiny. It didn't take long. This time, he knew what he was doing.

Charlotte was gone. She'd paused only long enough to dump him off in Hell before shooting back up to her own body. They'd planned it that way. Bobby and Clay had both agreed that Charlotte needed to conserve all of her strength for maintaining the link to Sam.

He got to his feet, once again surrounded by thick, inky blackness. He didn't bother trying to get the amulet around his neck to chase away the darkness. This wasn't where he was supposed to be.

Hand wrapped around Dean's amulet, Sam reached, gathering the power within him as he visualized where he needed to go.

White house in a field of dead grass. Crimson sky looming above. Dead bodies with his own face. Dean.

A column of flame erupted in front of him, materializing into the fire demon he'd run into before. He could actually physically feel the menace rolling off the thing, like angry ants on his skin.

"You're not supposed to be here, human" it said, the thought screaming into Sam's head, but Sam knew what was coming and was ready for it. When Sam didn't react, the column of fire flared angrily. "I will burn your soul to ashes!" the demon howled, swelling to twice its size.

Sam's lips quirked. "I don't think so," he said, a challenge in his eyes.

The demon screamed and lunged for him just as, with a flare of light from Dean's amulet, Sam winked out of existence.

* * *

Dean woke up screaming, a mass of blood and mangled flesh, back arching off of the porch as pain racked his body.

He could still feel it… hands ripping, teeth tearing. Losing himself piece by piece, somehow able to feel each part of him, even after it had been torn away. By his little brother. By Sammy.

His screams degenerated into choked sobs as he felt his body return to the now hated status quo.

He slowly rolled, trying to get up, but only made it to his hands and knees. Light tremors racked his body, which no longer seemed to want to obey his commands. He wouldn't have obeyed him either if he'd kept constantly getting dismembered.

"This is not better," Dean rasped. "This is _so_ not better."

He raised his head to scan the horizon. An acre of dead Sams patiently waited.

He couldn't just leave them like that.

He swallowed hard, knowing what he was about to do. He pushed himself to his feet, knowing what was most likely about to happen to him.

Hell had found a new, better game for him to play.

"Next time, Dean," he said, as he stepped off of the porch, "keep your fucking mouth shut."

* * *

He stood in a field full of dead grass and bodies with his face, under a blood-red sky. A white house stood in the distance.

Bingo.

The amulet around Sam's neck began to pulse steadily, gently tugging him toward the house. Toward his brother.

"Dean!" Sam called out, and began to run.

* * *

Dean continued with dogged determination to bury his brother. No matter the effort, the ending was always the same.

He'd been ripped apart, had his skull crushed, neck snapped, heart ripped out, among various other uninventive but still horribly painful deaths. Still, he persisted.

Though he was starting to think that maybe Sam didn't want to be buried.

* * *

The amulet led Sam right to his brother, just as he knew it would. At first, he'd run, occasionally stumbling over the various incarnations of his own death. As he got closer, he slowed, afraid of what he might see. As much as he wanted to save Dean, he couldn't help but fear what Hell had done to him. When he finally came across his brother, what he saw was so out of line with what he'd been expecting that he came to a complete stop, speechless.

Dean was digging.

His brother was on his hands and knees in a hole four or five feet deep, clawing at the bottom with his hands. He'd randomly scoop up loose dirt and chuck it over his shoulder, then start digging again. All the while, he was muttering something under his breath, but Sam couldn't make it out.

Sam approached warily, as he would a wounded animal. "Dean?" he called out hesitantly, but Dean didn't answer. Sam wasn't even sure if Dean had heard him. He seemed too focused on his task.

"Dean?" Sam called out again, crouching at the edge of the hole and reaching out a hand toward his brother.

Dean turned on him so fast that Sam instinctively jerked his hand back. He fell backwards and landed on his butt in the dirt. "_God_," he gasped, causing the sky above to roil in anger, as he caught his first real good look at Dean.

His brother was covered in dirt and smeared with blood. He was pale and sweating, sunken eyes more than a little bit crazed. Sam could see glimpses of bone peeking out from the ends of a few ruined fingertips. His entire body was shaking with light tremors, as if he were having some kind of seizure.

Those wild eyes looked up at him, taking a minute to assess before dismissing him altogether.

"Dude, wait your turn."

"Wha… What?" Sam stammered, taken aback by the completely casual tone of Dean's voice, as if he had asked something as trivial as _Dude, pass the salt_.

"Am I not speaking English here? I'm not finished with this one," Dean said, nodding his head toward the nearest body. "You'll have to wait."

"Dean, it's me," Sam said, then sputtered as Dean threw a handful of dirt over his shoulder directly into Sam's face. "It's Sam."

Dean froze for a second, and Sam thought he might have gotten through to him, but then Dean continued digging.

"I know who you are," Dean snapped angrily. "I'm dead, not blind." He heaved another clump of dirt over his shoulder, which Sam managed to avoid this time. "Sorry I don't have time to chat, Sammy, but, as you can see, I'm kind of busy here. Which I wouldn't be, if you would be a good little dead person and stay buried. But noooo, you gotta go and be difficult, don't you?" Dean shook his head. "Always were fucking stubborn."

Sam stared. Dean thought he was one of them--one of the dead versions of himself, up and walking around to torment him. The way Dean was acting made Sam think that this wasn't the first time he had experienced this particular torment.

Sam's vision went white with anger. If he ever got his hands on the demon formerly known as Ruby, he was going to figure out a way to kill the bitch. Slow. But that was for later. Right now, he had more important concerns.

He shoved himself forward, sliding down into the hole with his brother. "Look, I'm not one of them, okay? It's _me_. The _real_ me." He pulled on Dean's shoulder, trying to get him to stop digging, to look at him, but Dean shrugged him off. "Come on, man, you have to stop digging. Your hands…"

Dean spun, slapping one of those ruined hands against Sam's chest and shoving him against the side of the hole. "I told you to wait your fucking turn," he said, each word clipped and razor sharp.

Sam's mouth opened and closed like a landed fish. He was at a loss. The plan had been find Dean, wait for Charlotte to pull them back, ride out of Hell like heroes. He hadn't expected Dean to resist him.

Suddenly, the hand was gone, and Dean vaulted himself up and out of the hole. Sam just stood there for a second, Dean's bloody handprint on his shirt. _Come on, think of something, think of something. Christ, this is impossible! How do I convince Dean that I'm the real Sam Winchester when he's surrounded by hundreds, maybe thousands, of them?_

Sam jumped as a body suddenly landed in the hole next to him. Startled, he looked up, but all he saw was Dean's retreating back. His brother had chucked the body down into the grave, then had apparently gone to get another, leaving Sam alone. In a grave. With a corpse. Not that he wasn't used to it and all, considering their line of work, but circumstances in this case were a little different. This one had his face.

It looked to be him at about age eighteen, when he'd first headed off to college--shaggy hair, shoulders that hadn't quite filled out yet. The body was dressed in jeans and a Stanford t-shirt. The typical college attire in his early days.

Sam's eyes narrowed as he spotted something… or, more specifically, the lack of something. His looked up and quickly scanned several other bodies nearby, confirming his suspicion, before he bolted out of the hole and took off after his brother.

Dean had grabbed one of the adult Sam's by the arm and was dragging him toward the hole.

Sam moved in front of him and grabbed him by his shoulders. "Dean…"

Dean let go of the Sam he was dragging so he could push the other, more annoying Sam's hands away. "Back off, man. Just back off."

Sam stood his ground. "Dean, I need you to focus and listen to me for a minute, okay? Just take a look at…"

Sam's words were cut off by a fist to the face.

He flew backwards, landing on the pile of dirt next to the grave. Dean advanced on him and then stopped, staring down at him with such a fiery intensity that Sam thought it quite possible that he might burst into flames. (He was in Hell. It could happen). Or maybe even end up in buried in the grave behind him with his other self. His big brother's mind was definitely not firing on all cylinders.

Dean stopped just short of him, face contorting with conflicting emotions. Then he spun away from Sam and began to pace angrily.

"You're dead. You're pissed. I get it, all right? I fucking get it! It's my fault, it's always my fault, but there's not a damn thing I can do about it. I can't save you, no matter what I do, 'cause we all know I'm just one big fuckup. Hell, I can't even bury you properly. But this whole _Night of the Living Dead _thing is getting old. So why don't you just run along and come up with something else to torment me, huh?" Dean turned his back on Sam and began to walk back toward the body he'd dropped. "I got Sams to bury."

Sam scrambled to his feet and grabbed for Dean again. The elder Winchester spun and let his fist fly, but Sam had expected it and blocked. There was a rapid succession of blows, most of which Sam blocked, but Dean had always been better at hand to hand than he was, and he once again found himself on his ass.

When Dean turned his back on him again, Sam decided he'd had enough. He leapt and took Dean down with a flying tackle. They rolled, fighting for dominance, until Sam slammed Dean down against the dirt with a forearm to the chest. He kept it there, using his size and weight to pin his struggling brother to the ground. He used his free hand to grab the amulet dangling from his neck.

"Remember this?" When Dean turned his head away, refusing to look at what Sam was holding, Sam reached up and grabbed his chin, forcing Dean to face him. "Look at it!"

As soon as Dean's gaze fell on the amulet, he stopped struggling, though his tremors did not cease. Confusion clouded his eyes.

"You remember this," Sam said again, making it a statement. "I know you do. You told me to hold on to it for you. Remember?"

Dean's brows furrowed, and he looked from the amulet to Sam and then back again. His eyes widened.

That was it--the one thing that had been missing from all of the other Sams. The thing only his brother--his real brother--would have. Could it be...?

"Sammy?" Dean asked, his eyes brimming with tears.

Sam fisted a hand in Dean's shirt and tugged him to a sitting position. "Yeah. It's me, Dean. It's Sam. I'm here to rescue you."

"Aren't you a little tall for a storm trooper?" Dean said hoarsely, closing his eyes before the tears could fall.

Sam let out a bark of a laugh. Only Dean. He backed off so he could tug Dean to a sitting position. His own eyes were rimmed with tears. He stood and tried to pull Dean to his feet, but found that Dean resisted.

"Dean… come on…" Sam said, confused, as he gave Dean's hand another tug. He was sure he'd gotten through to him.

Dean shook his head and pulled his hand away. "It's too late."

He couldn't believe. Not anymore.

Sam crouched back down in front of his brother. "No. I won't accept that. I will not leave you here.

"Sam…"

"No, Dean. You either come with me, or we both stay. Those are your choices."

"And if I choose to stay?" Dean asked--eyes, voice, whole body weary.

Sam stood, bracing himself for a fight as he stared his brother down. "Then I knock your dumb ass unconscious and drag you outta here."

Dean bowed his head and laughed thinly. It was the answer he had been expecting. He only wished he could tell if this were real, or just a bit of wish fulfillment before Hell pulled the rug out from under him.

Sam held out his hand to his brother. "I will get you out of here, Dean. I swear it. You just have to trust me."

Silence reigned under the bloody sky. When Dean finally looked up at him, Sam knew that he had made his decision.

The moment he reached up to grasp the offered hand, a single sob escaped Dean's throat. It broke Sam's heart. He pulled Dean to his feet and wrapped him in a bear hug, squeezing hard. "It'll be okay," Sam whispered. "I promise."

Dean pulled away from the hug, unable to meet Sam's eyes. "Sam… I… If it's just another… " He trailed off, head turning to look out at the field of bodies, his eyes bleak. "I'm hanging on by a thread here, man."

Sam clapped a hand on Dean's shoulder and squeezed, giving him the Sam Winchester eyes of extreme sincerity, which were almost as famous as the Sam Winchester puppy dog eyes of doom.

"It's not a trick, Dean."

"You sure?" Dean asked, sounding like he was the younger brother.

Sam smirked. "Of course I'm sure. I'm the smart one, remember?"

Dean bit his bottom lip and nodded. He'd believe, for now. If it ended badly... well, he was used to it.

* * *

Sam and Dean stood opposite each other; left hands clasped together, the amulet in between them. Sam took the cord that was dangling from their hands and slowly wrapped it around them, all the while softly chanting archaic words to a ritual that would bind Dean's soul to his. Sam hoped that his theory was right, and that when Charlotte pulled him out of Hell, Dean would be pulled with him. The amulet hadn't really been part of the ritual, but Sam thought it was fitting. It had led him to Dean, now it would help see Dean home.

As the last words of the ritual fell from Sam's lips, heat flared in between their palms. They watched as the amulet faded, seeming to sink in their skin until it completely disappeared. But it wasn't gone; they could both still feel it, linking them together. They pulled their hands apart, but the connection remained. Their part in the escape plan was not complete.

Dean looked back up at Sam, eyes questioning. He was a little fuzzy on the details of the plan. "Now what?"

Sam gave a little shrug. "Now we wait."

The Winchester brothers sat down side by side on the porch steps, mirror images in both their posture and their vigilance. There was a long silence before Dean finally spoke.

"They're not gonna let me go without a fight. You know that, right?"

Sam watched the horizon, waiting. "Yeah. I know it."

* * *

A/N: The things I have to put these boys through to get them to hug. Sheesh.

Now that the brothers are finally reunited, it's time I had a little fun. The next chapter is called "No Quarter."


	8. No Quarter

No Dominion

By Inzane

Disclaimer: It's a good thing I don't own Supernatural; I would surely be up on charges for Dean abuse.

Summary: After a year of increasingly desperate research, Sam finally accepts that there is no way to break Dean's deal. But that doesn't mean he's giving up.

A/N: Forgive the extended hiatus, but I have had very little time to write lately, and what time I have had has been bogged down by the horror that is writer's block. The return of the show has inspired me to continue, and I am determined to exorcise the writer's block get back on track and finish this.

Warning: Violence, baby, and lots of it. (This chapter is just an excuse to indulge my inner action junkie.) Long chapter alert.

* * *

Chapter 8: No Quarter

"How's she holding up, Doc?"

Bobby asked the question gently, afraid to do anything that might distract the Atherton girl from her task.

He felt completely useless. Everything he'd learned over the years--all of his knowledge and experience, years of fighting the good fight--it didn't mean a damn thing. There was no monster to shoot. No ritual to perform. No obscure nugget of supernatural lore that would save them. Nothing he could do would be of any help to Sam and Dean; it was out of his hands. Charlotte was the only one who could help them now. All he could do was wait.

"She's hangin' in. A lot better than last time, that's for sure," the doctor replied as he checked the readouts on the monitor attached to Charlotte. He lowered his voice so that Clay, who was pacing on the other side of the room, wouldn't hear him. "Though I'm glad she's only going to be at this for two hours this go round. I don't know if she could keep this up for much longer than that without risking a repeat of what happened last time."

Bobby nodded and looked down at Charlotte. The girl's eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. She was breathing fast and shallow, as if she were running a marathon and not lying prone on the couch. Beads of sweat dotted her pale skin. She didn't speak, didn't move; she was locked in a trance-like state, focused on whatever it was that tied her to Sam.

The fate of the last family he had left in this world rest in her hands.

He'd be lying if he said he was okay with that. He wasn't okay. Not at all. And if things didn't turn out the way they wanted them to, he wasn't sure if he'd ever be okay again.

Bobby took a quick glance at Sam, who was sitting quietly in the chair--head bowed, face hidden behind that unruly mop he called hair. If you didn't know any better, you might have thought that the kid had just nodded off. There wasn't any physical sign that nobody was home in there.

It was different with Dean. One look at him, and you could tell something was missing. Maybe it was because Dean's soul had been ripped from his body, while Sam had given his up willingly. Why else would Dean be breathing through a tube while his little brother was resting peacefully?

Bobby turned his head to stare across the hall at the elder Winchester. "What about Dean?"

Gaffney followed Bobby's gaze and sighed. "I don't know what to tell you, Bobby. I've got no experience when it comes to his condition. They didn't really cover 'loss of soul' in medical school, if you know what I mean. If he were a normal coma patient, I'd probably be asking if he had a Living Will right about now. He's not breathing on his own anymore, and the rest of his vitals have taken a bit of a turn for the worse. If we took him off of life support right now, he'd die soon after."

Bobby's face hardened. "Not gonna come to that."

"You really think that Sam can somehow... save Dean from Hell?" Gaffney asked with obvious skepticism. Before his son had been possessed, he'd never really believed in Hell. After... it wasn't hard to become a believer. But if Hell really did exist, and he believed now that it did, he didn't think it was a place from which you could escape.

"I do," Bobby answered firmly. "And he will." There was no room for argument in the statement.

Gaffney grimaced. "Well, he'd better do it soon.

* * *

"So..."

Sam rolled his eyes. "_Dean_..." he said, the warning clear in his tone.

"...when are we getting out of here?" his brother finished innocently, as if he hadn't asked the question ten times before.

"Any minute now," Sam replied with a long-suffering sigh.

Dean frowned at Sam's answer and chucked a rock out into the field. "That's what you said the last three times I asked."

Dean had never been good at sitting around and doing nothing, especially when his ass was on the line. He always preferred to take the fight to the enemy, not wait around and let the fight come to him. The problem was, there was nothing to fight: no more dead Sams calling his name, no more nasty death and dismemberment. Hell had decided to take its ball and go home.

He didn't fool himself into thinking the bad guys had given up on him. He wasn't that lucky.

The fight was coming. He knew it was coming with a lot more certainty than he knew some girl he'd never even met would be able to pluck them out of Hell.

He'd tried to remain vigilant, watching for any sign of attack, but after everything he'd been through, his nerves were officially shot. He'd started humming Metallica's _Unforgiven_, not even realizing he was doing it until Sam had given him one of his _are-you-okay?_ looks, complete with puppy dog eyes, that always made his brain go on red alert. _Danger! Impending chick flick moment! _

Dean had quickly stopped humming.

He'd tried pacing, until that had annoyed his little brother and he'd been told to cut it out. Then he'd taken to gathering rocks and chucking them at invisible enemies, which had yet to piss Sammy off enough that he would say something about it. This defeated the whole purpose, since pissing Sammy off at least gave him something to do.

It was no use. Nothing helped. He couldn't stop _thinking_, which was something new for him; usually he had no trouble shutting his brain off whenever he wanted. He also found he couldn't stop himself from repeatedly asking the question he knew was irritating his brother. Truth be told, he was beginning to irritate himself with the question, but he kept asking it anyway.

"Any minute now," Sam said again, with a bit more fervor this time, trying to convince himself as much as his increasingly irritating older brother.

Dean turned his head to stare pointedly at Sam. "You have no idea, do you?"

Sam ducked his head, carefully avoiding Dean's gaze but still fidgeting under the scrutiny. "She was supposed to wait two hours," he muttered, almost hoping that Dean wouldn't hear him.

"Two hours? Are you kidding me? We've been on this porch all damn day! Night. Whatever," he said, waving a hand vaguely at the unnatural sky that was neither day nor night. "Don't you think if she was going to pull us out of here, she would have done it by now?"

"I don't know!" Sam shot back, irritation and anxiety creating a dangerous mix of emotion. "Time seems to work differently down here, okay? Two hours could equal two days… two weeks!"

"Why'd you go and tell her to wait two hours then?" The implied _dumbass _at the end of the sentence was unspoken but understood.

"Because I didn't want a repeat of last time, all right?!" Sam yelled, throwing up his hands. "I have no clue what time it is up in the real world. I have no clue of when we'll get out of here. _If_ we'll get out of here. I didn't know ten minutes ago, and I don't know now, so quit asking already."

"Fine," Dean replied, his voice subdued. Hurt.

Sam mentally cursed himself. His brother--the same brother that had brought him back from the dead and _gone to Hell _for it--was just looking for a little reassurance. It wasn't something Dean did very often, and instead of a light a the end of the tunnel, Sam become the proverbial freight train, running over whatever shred of hope was left in Dean.

Dammit.

Sam knew that if _he _was starting to think in Metallica lyrics, they must seriously be fucked.

"I'm sorry, man," Sam said, burying his hands in his hair and pulling. Dean wasn't the only one whose nerves were shot. "I'm more than a little on edge right now."

Dean didn't say anything for a long time. The weight of the uncomfortable silence pressed down on Sam, and he was about to apologize again when Dean said softly, "So that _was _you."

Dean's eyes unfocused as his mind flashed back to that moment. _Sam. Reaching toward him, calling out._ He hadn't imagined it. It hadn't been part of the game. Sam had come for him, and Charlotte had plucked him out of Hell just a second too soon, right before Dean had blown his own head off.

Sam could see Dean close himself off as the memory rolled over him. Whatever had happened to Dean after he popped back to the real world, it hadn't been pleasant. "Yeah," he replied quietly. "It was."

Dean fell silent as he looked back out over the field. The haunted look in his eyes seemed as if it would threaten to bury him.

Sam wished he could do something for him, even if it was only just a comforting hand on the shoulder. He knew it wouldn't be welcomed, so he didn't offer. Dean was trying hard to pretend that he was okay, just like he always did. Sam knew that he needed to let him... for now. They could deal with the emotional fallout once they made it back to the real world.

"It's not like we can send her a message or a signal flare or something," Sam continued, keeping his voice smooth and calm. "We just have to wait it out."

"Don't think we can do that, Sammy," Dean replied in a tired voice, which contradicted the sudden tension that gripped his brother's body.

Puzzled, Sam turned his head, following Dean's gaze. Puzzlement turned to shock as he bolted to his feet, eyes wide.

"Holy shit!"

All of the dead Sams in the field were rising--hundreds, _thousands_--slowly and as one. Every one of them--young and old, in one piece or in many--fixing the true Winchester brothers with a black-eyed demon stare.

Dean got to his feet and stood shoulder to shoulder with the real Sam. "More like _un_holy shit, dude."

He said it with as much bravado as he could manage while facing down an army demon-possessed dead bodies with his brother's face. He ignored the fact that his hands were still shaking… had never stopped since the moment Sam had found him. Was thankful for the fact that Sammy allowed him what small shred of dignity he had left and had been ignoring it as well.

"So, college boy, any ideas on how we handle this one?"

He really didn't want to get ripped apart by an army of dead Sams. Again.

Sam backed up, grabbing Dean's arm and pulling his brother back with him. "I uhh…" His voice failed him, and he had to clear his throat. "I think it's time for a tactical retreat."

* * *

"How much longer?" Clay Atherton asked, pacing. He just wanted this whole thing to be over. He wanted these men out of his house and life to return to normal.

Bobby looked down at his watch for the one hundredth time. "Eight minutes."

"Can't she just do it now?"

"No," Bobby replied firmly. He cut off Atherton's impending protest with a look. "We all agreed. Two hours, exactly."

Two hours, and it felt like forever.

"Take it easy, Atherton," Doc Gaffney said with a sigh as he plopped down in the chair opposite Sam.

He was bone tired, that was for sure. After this was all over, he was going to take some serious vacation time. He sagged in the chair, tried and failed to stifle a yawn, then looked with bleary eyes back up at Bobby.

"Eight minutes won't make much of a difference, anyway."

* * *

Dean allowed Sam to pull him until he realized _where_ his brother was pulling him. He dug his heels in without consciously meaning to, pulling himself free as he came to a hard stop.

Sam turned and saw that his brother was frozen, staring with a blank expression at the door Sam had been just about to open. "What…?"

"No."

Sam blinked, momentarily taken aback by the un-Deanlike fear in that one word. "We don't have any other options, Dean."

Dean nodded, confirming that he understood Sam's words and that he agreed with them. But he didn't move. He remained frozen in place, eyes unfocused, facing the door.

The fact that Dean would rather face a horde of reanimated fratricidal corpses than go into that house told Sam a lot about the extent of _bad_ that had happened to Dean in Hell. The movement of undead demon clones in his peripheral vision quickly snapped him out of his reverie. "Come on, man, we don't have time for this," he hissed, and reached forward to grab Dean's arm again.

Dean responded by latching on to Sam's wrist. "_Sam_," he pleaded, desperately wanting Sam to tell him there was another way, even though he knew that was not going to happen.

Sam's eyes shifted to his doppelgangers in the field, heart speeding a little faster at the sight of them. His gaze was drawn to one of them, an almost perfect copy of himself as he was now, even down to the clothes he was wearing. The only difference was that the left side of its face and upper chest appeared to have been ripped away, leaving a bloody mass of meat and bone. The thing tensed, as if it sensed him watching it, muscles bunching as it prepared to attack.

"Dean…" Sam said, his voice unsteady, never taking his eyes off of the demon horde, "we gotta go."

They rushed forward in a wave.

"Now!" Sam yelled. Still holding on to Dean, he turned and barreled through the door, dragging his resistant brother with him with all his might.

Once they'd crossed the threshold, Sam steered Dean out of the way, then flung the door shut and threw the deadbolt. He backed away, eyes on the door, begging it to hold. A second later, not just the door, but the entire wall shook with the force of bodies crashing into it.

It held.

Sam turned, looking for Dean. What he saw scared him.

His brother was sitting on the steps, bent forward with his elbows resting on his knees. His hands hung loosely, periodically twitching from the tremors Dean still was unable to stop. But this wasn't what scared Sam. What scared him was the look in his big brother's eyes. It wasn't fear. It wasn't despair. It was a look that said _we're all gonna die and I couldn't give a fuck_.

Dean was giving up. His there's-always-a-way, fight-or-go-down-swinging brother Dean was giving up.

No. He would not accept that.

Sam walked over and grabbed Dean's arm, tugging him upward. He grunted a bit from the effort; Dean wasn't resisting him, but he wasn't really helping, either.

"Come on, Dean. Snap out of it."

The walls shook again as the demon army crashed into the side of the house. There was a sound of cracking wood. They didn't have long.

"Dean!" Sam yelled, giving him a shake.

"_What?!_" Dean snapped back, pulling his arm out of Sam's grip. The look on his face was replaced with irritation, which Sam would take any day over apathy. Irritated Dean he could deal with.

"We can do this, Dean," Sam told him with confidence that he didn't really feel. But if he could get Dean to believe it, then maybe he could believe it, too. "We've just got to hold out for a little while. Just a little while longer, okay?"

Sam and Dean's heads turned toward the door as timbers groaned and wood cracked. Dean frowned.

"Just you and me against a demon army, huh?"

"Yeah."

"You and me--no weapons, no holy water--hold off an army of demon-possessed Sams on their home turf?"

"Um… yeah," Sam repeated, brow furrowing. When you said it out loud, it did sound more than a bit ridiculous.

Dean nodded, frown disappearing. "Kickass. But if we're doing the whole Alamo thing, I get to be Jim Bowie. You can be Davy Crockett. That mop on top of your head kind of looks like a coonskin cap, anyway, so it won't be a stretch."

Sam's eyebrows raised. "Dean. Are you telling me you actually paid attention in school?"

Dean sniffed, looking offended. "Just because I didn't get good grades doesn't mean that I didn't learn anything."

Sam raised an eyebrow.

Dean rolled his eyes. "I watched the movie, all right? Jeez."

The walls shook again. A crack appeared down the center of the front door.

Sam and Dean began to back away, toward the stairs, pushed by instincts honed during their father's relentless training. In any confrontation, take the high ground.

Dean's breath caught in his throat as his foot came to rest on the bottom stair. He paused, looking up. There was no eerie light this time, no fire. No dead baby Sams. Just plain, normal walls.

"_Dean_," Sam hissed, pausing halfway up the stairs when he realized his brother wasn't following.

Dean swallowed hard, pushing the memory away. "Coming."

* * *

Sam and Dean pounded up the stairs. Driven by instinct, Dean headed toward the room that had been their parents' bedroom.

It had been his safe haven, when he was little. It was the place he ran to when he was scared of the dark, the place where Mommy and Daddy were invincible heroes that chased away bad dreams. But that was before. Before he knew that there was no safe haven for a Winchester. Before he knew that Mommy and Daddy could die as hard and as fast as anyone else.

Heart in his throat, Dean's hand closed over the doorknob.

"Wait."

Sam's arm suddenly barred him. Dean turned his head to look at his brother, and there was this strange look in Sam's eyes--a weird mix of anxiety and determination.

Downstairs, there was a loud crack. Then another. Wood splintered.

"They're breaking through," Dean whispered harshly. He wasn't sure what game Sammy was playing, but they really didn't have time for it.

"Wait," Sam repeated, whispering the word this time as he backed Dean away. Sam placed his palms flat against the walls on either side of the door. His head fell forward until it touched the wood, and his eyes scrunched shut with concentration.

"_Sam_," Dean hissed urgently.

Sam let out the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. He reached down, his hand closing over the doorknob. "_Please work_," he whispered, too low for Dean to hear. Then he twisted the knob and slowly pushed open the door.

He took two steps inside the door and stopped, stunned. He hadn't thought it would work. He wavered when Dean, hard upon his heels, bumped into him.

"Dude, what…" Dean began, then his voice trailed off and he gaped.

Instead of walking into a bedroom, they had walked into an armory.

Instead of a bed and dresser, there were racks lining the walls. Pistols, shotguns, flamethrowers, crossbows, and various other weapons of destruction gleamed in the light of a bare bulb that hung from the ceiling. Boxes of ammunition were scattered around the room, bandoliers of shotgun shells sitting haphazardly on top. A hunter's paradise.

Dean shuffled forward, eyes wide. He reached down to pick up a shotgun shell, hesitating at the last second, as if he expected it were some apparition that would disintegrate if he touched it.

His hand trembled (_Still… he couldn't get it to stop, wasn't sure if it would ever stop._) as it hovered over the shell, and, cursing his body's betrayal, he snatched it up. It felt real enough, the casing hard and cold under his hand.

Dean's head snapped around to look at his brother. "What the _fuck_, Sammy?"

The question goaded Sam into motion. Stone-faced, he moved into the room with purpose, grabbing two shotguns and tossing one to Dean. He avoided looking directly at Dean, afraid of what he might see. He hadn't really wanted to use his powers around his brother. He didn't want Dean to think he was a freak.

"Not really the time to look a gift horse in the mouth, Dean" Sam said, his voice gruff as he began to load his shotgun with a little more force than necessary.

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Good point," he said, and began loading his own shotgun. "Stupid expression, but good point."

* * *

Roles strangely reversed, Dean let his brother take the lead, following Sam back out into the upstairs hall. He could hear loud pops and cracks as the demon Sams tore at the door, ripping it apart. They would soon be inside.

His brain was reeling. His brother had made a cache of weapons appear out of nowhere. In Hell. Sammy's Jedi powers were apparently alive and kickin', and he hadn't said a word. Not one word. How long had he been keeping this secret? Months? A year?

He could have pressed the matter, but he saw the way Sam's jaw was clenched, saw the way his brother avoided looking him in the eye.

He'd let it drop. He could always beat the truth out of Sammy later.

Assuming there was a later.

They stopped at the top of the stairs, each of them crouching slightly, shotguns gripped tight. They were both loaded down with ammunition and extra guns. As ready as they would ever be.

There was an excited howl from below as the door gave way and the demons poured inside.

_**Please**__, Charlotte_, Sam thought as he braced himself, gripping his gun tighter.

"Here they come."

* * *

"Is it…?"

"No," Bobby snapped with finality, cutting off Atherton's question before he could finish. The man was seriously pissing him off. He wouldn't be surprised if, in the next six minutes, his fist ended up connecting with Atherton's face.

Bobby was actually grateful for it, in a way. It helped distract him from the near-crushing anxiety he felt as each second brought them closer to sealing Sam and Dean's fate.

Whether that fate was good or bad remained to be seen.

* * *

For a while, they thought they were winning. Or, at least, not losing.

By taking the high ground, the Winchesters had left the demons only one way to reach them. The horde could only come at them from one direction, and the confines of the stairway caused a funneling affect, allowing only so many demons to attack them at once.

At one point, one of the Sams had sunk its teeth into the real Sam's leg. He pulled his pistol and was about to fire when he froze. They were tiny teeth. The demon was wearing baby Sam, probably not more than a year old. Chubby cheeks and soft brown curls and, God, it was a _baby_.

Then Dean was there. He didn't hesitate, just pressed the barrel of his shotgun into the thing's body and pulled the trigger. Sam turned his head away, not wanting to watch the aftermath.

Dean took a step forward, standing next to his little brother, his face grim. He paused to fire another round off into the mass of demon Sams in the stairwell, then told his brother, "Don't hold back. They won't."

* * *

"Hey, Sammy, look what I found?"

"What?" Sam shouted back, swinging the butt of his now empty shot-gun. He clipped one of his doppelgangers across the chin, sending it crashing back into the demons behind it. Dean had gone for more ammo while Sam held the stairs.

Dean stepped up next to him, fully loaded bandoliers draped over him. He kicked out, catching another demon-Sam in the chest and sending it back down the stairs. Then he turned, crooked grin on his face as he brandished a small, round object in his hand.

Sam grinned like a Cheshire cat.

"Fire in the hole!" Dean yelled, then pulled the pin on the grenade and tossed it down the stairs. Sam and Dean crouched simultaneously, turning they backs and covering their heads with their arms.

The blast was deafening in the confines of the stairwell. Bits and pieces of dead-demon-Sams went everywhere, hitting the walls, the ceiling, Sam and Dean.

As the smoke cleared, Sam and Dean stood and turned, plucking of Sam-bits as they took in the carnage.

"That oughtta make 'em think twice!" Dean shouted triumphantly.

Several black-eyed Sams stepped into view on the stairs, standing in the remains of their dead brethren.

Dean's shoulders sagged. "Or not."

* * *

Sam and Dean mowed them down, taking out one demon after another, bodies piling up on the stairs as they fell where they stood. But they weren't playing by real world rules. The fallen--those in one piece, anyway--would rise to attack them again. And no matter how many they took out, there were more. Always more.

Dean wasn't fairing so well. His time in Hell had already taken a drastic toll on him. He was pale and sweating, and the dark circles under his red-rimmed eyes made him look almost as much of a corpse as the demons attacking them. His reaction times were off, and what little energy he had left was fading. And it seemed that each time one of the demons breached their defenses, they would target Dean. Maybe it was because they recognized Dean as the weakest link, or maybe it was because they chose to avoid Sam and the power he held; either way, Dean was taking the brunt of the damage.

Demons sure knew how to inflict some major damage.

One of the demons--riding a gangly, fourteen-year-old Sam, who was all arms, legs, and elbows--leaped over one of his brethren, flying towards Dean.

"Look out!" Sam yelled, bringing around his shotgun. His aim was true, and he caught teenaged-Sam right in the gut. But the demon's momentum drove it forward, and the body came crashing down on top of Dean, pinning his arms and shotgun against his body.

Sam turned his back on him. He couldn't help Dean now. He had to hold the stairs. If he couldn't hold the stairs, they were both dead. He would just have to make sure that nothing got through, and hope that Dean could take care of himself.

* * *

Dean grunted, about to push the dead Sam off of him, when its eyes snapped open, demon-black. It screamed, blood pouring out of its open mouth and spattering Dean's face. Its hands--much stronger than any fourteen-year-old's should have been--wrapped around Dean's neck and tightened, trying to choke the life (_unlife? soul?_) out of him. Blood welled up as the thing's fingernails punctured his skin.

Dean's face turned red, then purple. Undead teen Sam's face lit with malicious glee, which looked so wrong on his little brother's face. The thing bared its teeth, about to lunge for Dean's carotid. It was a death he had faced before.

Abruptly, its mouth clacked shut as Dean managed to shove his shotgun up under its chin.

"Not this time," Dean croaked, and blew his dead brother's head off.

* * *

"It's no use," Sam panted as he stood at ready at the head of the stairs, trying to catch his breath during the temporary lull while the demons regrouped. "There's too many."

Too many, and the just kept coming and coming. They'd been fighting hours, days, maybe goddamn forever, and still, they kept coming. There were just too damn many.

"Yeah. One of you is definitely enough."

Sam's head whipped around to take a quick glance at his brother, startled by the mirth in his voice. Dean was leaning heavily against the wall, pale face smeared with blood and sporting a crooked smile.

Just then the demons attacked. Sam spun back around; his shotgun roared.

Dean started laughing.

"Don't really think this is a laughing matter, Dean," Sam scolded, firing into the crowd and trying not to panic. But it was really hard to panic when you were in Hell, and dudes wearing your face were trying to kill you, and your brother was laughing in a not funny ha-ha but funny _farm _kind of way.

"A little help here?" Sam asked, his voice rising in pitch. _Come on, big brother, hold it together. Just a little while longer. Hold it together. God, please, Charlotte, hurry!_

Dean shuffled up next to him, still laughing as he fired down into the mass of demons. "Shot doooooown… in a blaaaaaze of glory."

Sam's chest constricted painfully as his brother began to sing. _Okay, Dean has officially lost it._

This was bad. Very, very bad. Dean had been in Hell for too long. It wasn't just that his brother was singing, but that he was singing Bon Jovi_._ _Bon Jovi_, for Christ's sake. Dean hated Bon Jovi. Dean would describe, in detail, various Celebrity Death Match-type scenarios where the members of Metallica and AC/DC reigned their most gruesome and painful wrath down on the posers known as Bon Jovi.

Another blast from Dean's shotgun.

"I'm going ooouuuutttt…. in a blaaaaaze of glory."

"Um… Dean?" Sam interrupted, unable to hide the worry in his voice. He pulled his pistol and fired into the crowd, taking out three demons with head shots and wounding two others.

Dean flipped open his shotgun to reload, laughter finally dying down a bit. "What?" he asked happily, smiling as he slid more shells into the barrel.

"I'm gonna try something," Sam said hesitantly. He wasn't sure if he should take the risk. What if didn't work? Or, even worse, what if it did work, but only for him and not Dean?

"Go ahead, Sammy," Dean replied, his voice still ripe with amusement. "Knock yourself out."

Without any explanation of what he intended to do, Sam dropped his gun. He turned and wrapped both arms around Dean and held tight.

"Hold on," Sam said as Dean let out a sputtering protest. Closing his eyes tight, Sam reached for whatever it was in him that made him special, and _leapt_.

* * *

"Time?"

"Four minutes."

* * *

Dean felt as if he had been turned inside out.

He reeled, slipping from Sam's grip. Eyes scrunched shut from the pain, he stumbled forward a few steps, then fell to his knees. His stomach lurched, emptying its contents, mostly bile tinged with an alarming amount of blood, onto the white ground. He felt a hand on his back, quickly followed by Sam's worried voice asking, "Dean, are you okay?"

He wiped his hand across his mouth, grimacing at the lingering taste. "_God_. Let's not do _that _again."

What _had _they done, exactly?

Dean rocked back to sit on his heels. When he opened his eyes, he finally got it.

Small, frozen lake. Evergreens. Snow.

"Whoa."

He turned his head to look at Sam, and everything spun. He didn't realize he was falling forward until Sam called out his name, grabbing his arm to keep him from planting himself face first in the snow. Then there was a bunch of run-together words that didn't really make any sense to Dean's seriously aching brain,

Sam was saying something, that much was certain, but the words came out in such a rush that Dean's brain had to work hard to keep up. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have... I didn't know if it would work, for both of us, I mean, I knew it would work for me, but I didn't know if I could take someone with me..."

"Sam."

"…and I didn't have time to figure out how to take the guns, just you. I'm really sorry. I didn't even think about what it might do to you, I should've thought of it, and just... _stupid_... but we couldn't hold out much more, and you were scaring me, man, you were singing--_Bon Jovi, _Dean--and I thought.."

"Sam!"

"What?"

Dean started to struggle to his feet, forehead creased with concentration as he tried to get the landscape to stop spinning. "They're coming."

Sam turned, taking a step in front of his brother to shield him from whatever Hell threw at them.

They came up from underneath the snow, on the far side of the clearing. Dozens of them. No longer wearing Sam's face, the creatures were black and chitinous, wolf-like bodies armored with insectoid-like shells.

"Can you pop us out of here again?"

Sam reached, searching for the power, but it was barely there, depleted. He shook his head. "Not right now!" He figured he had to recharge or something, like a battery.

"Then run!" Dean yelled, tugging at his brother's sleeve as he took off in the opposite direction.

Sam turned and ran, quickly catching up with and then slightly overtaking Dean. He had no idea where he was headed, just away from those things. Dean, even as messed up as he was, _was_ paying attention. He grabbed Sam's arm and pulled, jerking him to the left.

"Not _that _way," Dean growled, pulling Sam toward the trees. That way was the lake. The goddamn, dead Sammy-filled lake.

They ran for the trees. Dean struggled to keep pace with his brother, knowing that Sam would refuse to leave him behind, and that he'd end up getting both of them served up as demon puppy chow if he didn't move his ass. His muscles were on fire, his lungs felt like they would explode, and he'd had enough. He was about ready to lay down and die, had that been an option, but it wasn't, and he wouldn't put Sam through that again anyway, if he could help it.

They ran deeper into the woods, dodging branches and leaping over fallen trees. There wasn't a goal, really, except to put as much distance between them and the demons until Sam could use his powers again. They covered a decent bit of ground before the inevitable happened. Dean, his limbs tired and almost numb, tripped over an exposed root and stumbled to the ground.

"Dean!" Sam yelled, skidding to a halt. He turned back to help his brother, had not even taken a full step before there was a blur of motion off to his right. A wolf-bug demon came at him, taking him down in a flying leap.

Sam crashed to the ground, rolling with the demon, arms pushing it back to keep its snapping jaws from his throat. It was hard for his hands find purchase; the thing's body was a slick carapace. He managed to draw his legs up in between them and planted his feet square on its chest. He focused, putting a little bit of his power into it, and shoved with all his might. The demon went flying, crashing through several smaller trees before it tumbled over the side of an embankment.

Sam spun back around, searching for his brother, hoping that another demon hadn't gotten to him while he was down.

Dean wasn't down. He was up and fighting, swinging a thick branch at the demon menacing him. It lunged at him, jaws open wide. Dean didn't flinch, just jammed his branch right down the thing's throat. The beast jumped back, throwing its head around wildly, trying to dislodge the stick.

Dean didn't waste time waiting to see if it would. "Move!" he yelled, and ran toward Sam.

Without warning, a strand of… Sam didn't know what it was--something thick, sticky, and white… shot down from the trees above, wrapping around Dean's neck. Like a rubber band, it snapped back, jerking a wide-eyed Dean up into the canopy with it.

"Dean!" Sam yelled, looking up at the branches above, searching for his brother. There, about twenty feet up, was a giant spider web. Dean was being reeled in by the architect of the web. It was a spider, yet, not. The body and legs seemed right, but the face was strangely humanoid, dead white eyes and a gaping maw of sharp teeth.

Sam ran toward the tree and leapt, grabbing on to the lowest hanging branch. He pulled, using his legs against the truck to lever himself up higher. He had to get to Dean.

Dean was struggling, using his legs to push the thing away from him as he tugged against the web strangling him. He sucked in a gasping breath as the strands finally broke.

The spider-demon lunged at him, teeth snapping. Its legs, each one ending in a sharp talon, raked at him, tearing at his clothes, his skin. Rage filled Dean, making his vision go red. "I am not…a demon… chew-toy!" he yelled, punctuating each pause by planting his steel-toed work boot in the thing's face.

Unfortunately, all he managed to do was piss it off.

The demon screamed, raising its front leg high, then crashing it down, stabbing deep into Dean's side.

"No!" Sam cried out, still scrambling to reach him, his voice an eerie counterpoint to Dean's scream.

Dean's hands wrapped around the spider's leg, trying to pull it out, but his limbs refused to obey. He felt his hands slipping, felt his eyes falling shut as that nasty, gaping maw opened wide, dripped God-knew-what down on his face. _Don't pass out,_ he told himself. _You pass out and you're toast._

Suddenly, Sam was there. He jumped for a branch hanging out in front of him and swung, sending his feet crashing into the body of the spider. It let out a piercing scream as it was flung backwards, echoed by Dean's scream as its leg ripped out of his body.

Without the spider holding him in place, Dean began to fall. He tried to hold on to the tree limb, but his arms were robbed of strength, and the weight of his lower body was pulling him down.

"SAM!"

Sam threw his body forward, laying out completely, just managing to grab Dean's wrist before Dean fell.

The weight of two grown men was too much for the branch to bear, and it cracked, sending them tumbling downward.

Their bodies crashed through three branches before Sam landed on top of a larger branch. He quickly wrapped his left arm tight around the limb, while his right still held on to Dean's wrist. He gritted his teeth and waited for the pain he knew was coming.

Dean jerked to a stop, dangling ten feet off the ground. Sam screamed as his shoulder pulled out of the socket, but he didn't let go. Eyes watering from the pain, Sam stared down at his brother.

Down below, the rest of the wolf-bug demons had finally caught up to them. They circled the tree, growling and leaping up to snap at Dean's dangling feet.

Dean stared back up at him. He blinked a few times, still not quite sure that he wasn't spider chow or a sack of broken bones on the ground. But Sam's grip on his wrist felt very real.

A noise from above caused Dean to shift his eyes up, above Sam. His eyes widened with fear. Sam couldn't look, but he knew what was coming. The spider-demon hadn't given up yet.

"_Sammy_," Dean whispered hoarsely, the urgency of the situation clearly expressed in that one word.

"Hang on," Sam grunted. He reached inside of himself, searching for the power, willing it to be there. He felt the demon's hot drool drip on his back. There was no more time. He would just have to go for it, and hope that he had enough in the tank to get the job done.

"No!" Dean yelled with as much strength as he could manage, as the spider demon launched itself at his little brother.

The spider crashed through the tree limbs, screeching in anger as its prey was suddenly gone.

* * *

"Ohhh," Dean groaned, putting a hand to his forehead and closing his eyes so he wouldn't have to watch the room spin. He felt Sam's hand on his shoulder, steadying him, and that was getting old, seriously. He was the big brother. He was supposed to take care of Sam, not the other way around. Why couldn't he get his body to remember that?

Sam looked around, wincing at the throbbing pain in the shoulder he had just popped back in. He'd brought them to the place where he'd encountered that crazy man getting ripped apart by demons. The room reminded him of a dungeon--stone walls, the corners cloaked in shadow. The large wooden door hung open. A small, central fire-pit provided light but also made it terribly hot. Sam didn't see any sign of demon activity, so he pulled at Dean's arm, maneuvering him so he could lean against the wall. Because he knew his brother couldn't be trusted to give him an honest answer, Sam began to check out Dean's injuries.

Dean's right side was torn to shreds. Dark blood pulsed, and Sam could see glimpses of rib. A section of Dean's guts bulged from the puncture wound, where the spider's leg had impaled him.

"Oh God, Dean, you're a mess."

The worry in Sam's voice made Dean open one bleary eye to look at his brother. "M'okay."

"No. You are not okay. You're bleeding all over the place."

"Can't be blood. Gotta have a body to have blood. Body's topside."

Sam pulled his outer shirt off and immediately began tearing it into strips. "Looks real enough to me."

"Not blood. _Soulstuff_."

Sam forced himself to remain focused on his task instead of on how bad Dean sounded. "Your guts are hanging out."

"Well, put 'em back in, little brother."

Sam nodded, and got down to business. A normal person might have freaked out at such a request, made in an off-handed fashion. But this wasn't the first time that Sam had pushed a family member's intestines back into his body. He could tune out the slippery feel of them against his fingers, could even tune out the grunts of pain. But he couldn't tune out Dean's words, had never been able to, though you would've thought, given all his opportunity to practice, he would've been a master at it by now.

"Yyou know, Ssammy," Dean said, and Sam tried not to panic at the slight slurring of the words, "you really shhould try the whole... Jeannie head-bob thing when we do the disappearing act. Though you're not as cute as Barbara Eden. And I guesss it really wouldn't look right without the pony tail… though, you know, your hair's gettin' kind of long enough. I think if you just pulled it back…"

Dean made a weak grab for Sam's hair, and Sam ducked his head easily out of the way. _Just stay focused on your task, _he told himself_, 'cause otherwise you're going to start freaking out._ "I think you're delirious, Dean."

Giving up on turning Sam into a male version of Jeannie, Dean let his hands fall to his side. "Could be right about that. Guess that's why you're the ssmart one."

His held fell forward, not because he had wanted to look down at that particular moment, but because his head was suddenly too damn heavy for his neck. It lolled slightly to the side, and he could see where Sam had pushed his guts back in and was trying to bandage it the best he could. Blood had already seeped through the makeshift bandage, and was running down his side to soak into the top of his jeans.

It wasn't healing. The wound was not healing. No more status motherfucking quo.

"Awesome," Dean muttered, then felt his body begin to waver, sliding to the side along the wall.

"Whoa!" Sam said, standing up to catch his brother before he fell. "Come on, Dean, stay with me."

Dean's eyes rolled as his brain kept telling him that it was nap time. "I'm tryin', Sammy," he replied weakly.

Sam frowned, worry creasing his brow. "Why don't you sit down for a minute?"

Dean shook his head. "Can't. Don't think I'd get back up."

Fear gripped Sam. For Dean to admit that... he must be in really bad shape. Sam reached down to grab Dean's arm, the one opposite his wound, and slung it over his shoulders so he could support his brother's weight. They had to get moving. "Just hang on, man. We'll be out of here soon. Any minute now."

"Where have I heard _that_ before…?" Dean tightened the arm that was slung around Sam's shoulders, giving him a brotherly squeeze as Sam basically dragged him along. "You know, Ssammy, you're way cooler than Michael Scofield."

Sam's eyes rolled in autonomic response. "Ugh, Dean, not Prison Break _again_."

One of Dean's favorite pastimes that didn't involve girls was television. But Dean just couldn't watch a TV show; he had to pick apart and heckle the characters, keeping up a running monologue that made it difficult to understand what the characters were actually saying. (Sam suspected it was mostly because Dean could never stop talking.) His favorite target was Prison Break.

Dean ignored Sam's protest. "Two badass brothers... put in completely ridic… ridicu…in crazy situations. Reminds me of us. 'Cept we're way more badass. And hot. Least, I am, anyway. That chick in Grand River ssaid I was hotter than Michael Scofield. Don' think she said anything 'bout you, thhough."

Dean stumbled as his legs momentarily gave out. Sam tightened his grip on his brother and his own fear. He couldn't panic. Dean had taken care of him all of his life, and now it was time to return the favor.

Sam moved them over to a rock formation and leaned Dean up against it, letting him catch his breath. He scanned their surrounding, watching for anything that might be a threat. "Come _on_, Charlotte," Sam whispered vehemently.

"Am I gonna die, Sammy?"

Sam's head whipped around to stare at Dean. His brother was so pale, he could have been a ghost. Dark red blood and bright green eyes stood out in stark contrast to his white face.

"No. Don't be ridiculous," Sam said, the words sounding a little too rushed.

Dean looked upward, and his head fell back against the rock. "'Cause I feel like I'm dyin'. Not sure how that works, though, since I'm already dead. Kind of. Can a soul die?"

"You're not dying, Dean. We're getting out of here," Sam said firmly, this time with certainty.

"Any minute now?" his brother asked, hopefully, eyes wide and innocent, almost like a child's.

Sam found himself blinking as tears rimmed his eyes. "Yeah. Any minute now."

Dean bobbed his head. "Good. 'Cause I don' thhink I can ffight anymmore."

Without any warning, Dean's eyes rolled up into his head and he fell to his knees. Sam shifted his grip, which allowed him to control his brother's fall, but he couldn't stop it.

Sam went to his knees as well, grabbing Dean's shoulders to keep him upright. Dean's eyes fluttered, and his head began to loll around. In a flash of memory that froze his blood, Sam remembered the night they had been in this same situation, but their positions reversed. The night that had changed their lives forever.

"No. No. You stay with me, big brother. You stay with me." Dean's eyes still rolled, and his body swayed. "Dammit. Come on, Dean!" Sam yelled, and gave Dean's cheek a couple of slaps.

Dean's eyes stopped rolling and scrunched shut in irritation. "Ow. Quit hittin' me."

Sam's shoulders sagged with relief. He felt like grabbing his brother up in a hug, but that would be as good as admitting how scared he was. No way was he doing that. Dean was hurt, so he had to be the strong one. Instead, Sam settled for reaching up to ruffle his brother's hair, which he knew would piss Dean off. No one of the male persuasion was permitted to touch the Dean hair.

"I wouldn't have to hit you if you wouldn't pass out like a girl."

Dean frowned, more like a five-year-old than a man of twenty-nine, as he jerkily reached up to smooth his hair. "Did not."

Sam smirked. "Yeah. You did."

Dean waved his hand weakly, dismissing the issue. If you can't win an argument, ignore it; that was Dean's motto. "Whatever."

"Come on, Dean," Sam said, tugging his brother back to his feet. "We better get moving."

* * *

They'd been walking for about fifteen minutes (but who really knew, here in Hell?) through a maze of winding tunnels. Sam had tried to repeat his magic armory trick, but it didn't work. Either Hell had figured out a way to stop him, or he just didn't have enough energy left to pull it off. Fortunately, Dean had found his second wind, and was able to walk again on his own, with a steadying hand from Sam once in a while. They walked in silence, conserving their energy, listening for any sign of approaching bag guys.

When the bad guy finally did cross their path, it didn't make a sound. A pretty neat trick, considering it was a bigass troll-like demon that was twice as tall as Dean. It was a mountain of muscle, with mottled, gray-green skin and wicked spikes running down its arms and back.

They stood, staring. They had both been through so much and they were so tired, their brains were barely able to process this new development. If Bobby had been there, he would have told them to stop staring like a couple of idjits and haul ass. Unfortunately, Bobby wasn't there, and the Winchester brothers were both a bit shell shocked.

Dean's brain kicked in first, describing their predicament with his usual eloquence.

"Well, shit."

The thing let out a giant roar, and that was enough to spur the Winchesters into action. They could have done the macho thing and stood their ground. Instead, they did the smart thing; they ran.

Sam turned his head back just in time to see the troll-demon takes two giant leaps (and a thing that big should not be able to move that fast; it just wasn't right) and launch itself at them. Or, more specifically, at his brother.

"Dean!" Sam yelled, and launched himself at his brother in a flying tackle. Before they hit the ground, they popped out of existence.

* * *

"One minute." Bobby turned to Charlotte. "You ready, kid?"

Charlotte's concentration didn't waver; her eyes remained unfocused, looking within. "Yes," she whispered, conserving every bit of energy for what she was about to do.

* * *

They materialized in the utter blackness that had accompanied Sam's arrival in Hell. And because nothing ever came easy for a Winchester, they also materialized in mid air.

Sam and Dean fell ten feet to the ground. It happened so fast that they were unable to brace for it, and they landed in a tangle of limbs and the sound of an ominous crack.

Sam's weight crashed down on top of Dean, forcing his brother's breath out of his lungs in a whoosh. In more of a flop then a roll, Sam forced his now heavily protesting body to the side until he was lying on his back. He blinked several times, trying to force his eyes to make some sense of the darkness, to no avail.

After several very tense seconds of ominous silence, Dean groaned.

"Dean?" Sam croaked. "You okay?"

Dean started to reply, but was interrupted by a fit of coughing that sounded like he might be hacking up a lung. Considering the damage Dean had taken lately, it was entirely possible that Dean _was_ hacking up a lung.

Sam heard his brother take a few panting breaths, then spit something out onto the ground which Sam wished he didn't know was blood. "Peachy," Dean replied, his voice deep and deadpan. "Where are we?"

Sam mentally cursed the darkness, which kept him from seeing just how bad Dean really was. Dean's guts could've been hanging out--_again_, dammit--and he still would've replied with the same flip remark.

He looked around him, though there was nothing to see, and with Dean's amulet gone, there was no way _to _see.

"Nowhere," Sam replied.

He hoped to God that bringing them here wasn't a mistake, but he hadn't known anywhere else to go. He didn't really understand the full extent of his powers, or how to use them. He moved them around in Hell by envisioning where he wanted to go and then, though he still didn't quite understand how, making it happen. He didn't think this magical transport would work in the real world, but, here in Hell, it was surprisingly easy. Easy to do, but not was easy to figure out the how, much less the why, of it.

There was a noise in the darkness.

A subtle scraping, barely audible. Sam sat bolt upright, straining to hear, straining to see, even though he knew it would do him no good. He heard several grunts of effort as Dean apparently pulled himself to a sitting position. "Do you hear that?" Sam whispered in the general direction of his brother, though he might as well have yelled, because the sound echoed in the cavernous black.

"No," Dean said firmly, not because he didn't hear it, but because he didn't want to hear it. He was tired of fighting, tired of running, and, frankly, tired of being a demon chew-toy. So he didn't hear the sound of leathery skin scraping over a stone floor. Didn't hear the beat of wings displacing air. Didn't hear the wet, sucking noise of something sliding toward them. "_No_, dammit."

A small flame appeared in the darkness, as if someone had lit a match. It began to bob around, slowly circling them. As it moved, it grew brighter, brighter than any flame of its size had a right to be. Sam turned to look at Dean, slightly visible in the dull glow. Sam suspected that he was wearing the same _what-the-fuck? _expression that his brother was sporting right now.

They both jerked in surprise when the tiny flame burst into a column of flame. A column of flame that was surrounded by demons which defied description.

"You know, Sammy, I'm beginnin' to think that if it weren't for bad luck, we wouldn't have any luck at all."

"Tell me about it," Sam replied bitterly. He got to his feet, then helped Dean up, all the while never taking his eyes from the demon horde. He slung Dean's arm over his shoulder and tried not to worry about how much Dean was leaning on him. They looked around them, searching for an escape route, but there was none. They were surrounded.

Sam braced himself and tightened his grip on Dean. "Cristo."

The demons jerked in eerie unison, as if a giant hand had managed to slap them all at once.

Dean unslung his arm from Sam's shoulders. Since his legs were on the verge of mutiny, he rolled around until he was back to back with Sam, trying not to lean to heavily on his brother but unable to help it. He just didn't have anything left. "Dude, cut it out. You're just pissing them off."

He turned his head, scanning the crowd of demons once more, looking for any sign of weakness, of escape. Which turned out to be seriously fucking futile, since there were demons in every direction, as far as he could see. He swallowed hard, then forced himself to straighten a bit, taking some of the weight off of Sam. "Can't you pull another Jeannie and poof us outta here?"

"You do realize you just said _poof_, right?" Dean didn't have to see Sam's face to visualize a shit-eating grin on it.

"Shut up." For several heartbeats, neither of them spoke. Then Dean asked, "So can you?"

Sam closed his eyes and concentrated on finding that place inside of him that held his power. He tried several times, but each time he tried to reach it, it was like something scattered inside of him, and it slipped away. "No," Sam replied, shaking his head. "Something's blocking me."

"Flame boy?" Dean asked, nodding his head at the fire demon.

Sam frowned. He shook his head with certainty, knowing it hadn't been able to stop him before. "Something worse."

"Worse? What could be worse than _that_?!"

"I don't know, but I think we're going to find out."

Sam and Dean braced themselves, preparing to go out, as Dean had so aptly put it back at the house, in a blaze of glory. Charlotte was not going to pull them out; if she'd been able, she would have done it already. Their souls would be trapped forever in Hell, subject to endless torment.

None of the demons, however, seemed willing to get on with the tormenting.

"What are they waiting for?" Dean asked, puzzled.

As if in answer to the question, there was a deep, discordant sound that so loud it reverberated through their bones. The ground under their feet, the very air around then, vibrated with what felt like impact tremors.

"Something's coming," Sam said quietly, barely able to find his voice as fear gripped him.

The fire demon flared, and its approximation of a mouth twisted in a sick smile. When it spoke, each word was enunciated with precision, delivered with malice and a touch of glee.

"Now. You. Will. S_uffer_."

This declaration incited the demon horde to near riot. They scream and howled, a flurry of motion that was oddly constrained, as if something was holding them back.

_Something worse_.

The base note rang out again, causing the brothers to flinch. It was as if someone had rung a giant bell, its tone so deep and so loud that they could feel it in their bones. As the sound of it echoed in the darkness, the other demons started to back away. They almost genuflected as they crawled backwards, widening the circle around Sam and Dean. They split away, breaking the ring and opening a path directly behind the fire demon. Then, without warning, the fire demon winked out, snuffed like a candle. Afterimages danced crazily in front of the Winchesters' eyes, gradually fading until they were returned to stygian black.

"Okay, that can't be good," Dean said.

"Thank you, Captain Obvious," Sam snarked back.

"Very funny. Bitch."

"Jerk."

The familiar exchange offered little comfort, but they would take what they could get. It wasn't easy being damned.

Something was in the dark. Something more than the demon horde that surrounded them. Moving, massing--a tangible force pressing against their skin. Then they were both doubling over, falling to their knees, hands clapped over their ears to block out the screaming. Screaming, rapidly increasing in volume and intensity, only they couldn't block it out, because it was coming from inside their heads. It went on and on, until their ears began to bleed.

Then the screaming stopped. The silence was so sudden and unexpected that they both gasped.

Sam stretched out his arm, reaching blindly through darkness and pain for his brother. He found Dean's wrist and latched on, holding on tight.

"Sorry," Sam whispered. _Sorry for dying on you. Sorry that you had to sell your soul for me. Sorry that I couldn't save you._

"Me too," Dean whispered back. _Sorry I dragged you down with me. Sorry I let it come to this._

The air pressure around them was increasing. The darkness was swallowed up by a strange, sick light, as if the air itself was glowing with phosphorant putrescence. The smell of sulfur and ozone flowed down over them, so thick that it was almost impossible to breath without gagging.

Whatever was coming for them, it was close.

Their bodies began to buckle, collapsing to the floor in forced obeisance, and blood began to seep from their ears, eyes, and nose. Sam cried out as he felt a rib snap, then another. He felt his hipbone crack. He heard a sharp crack next to him, and heard Dean cry out in pain.

They were being crushed. Inch by painful inch.

Sam struggled against the force crushing down him, fighting to turn his head look at Dean. His brother's eyes had rolled up so that only the whites remained, and his body was doing spasmy, uncontrolled little jerks that suggested something important had been broken. Whatever thing it was that was crushing them had impacted Dean's body two inches into the floor. Blood flowed freely.

The pressure on Sam's body increased, pushing him deeper into the floor. He thought he could actually hear the sound of his skull bones grinding together, bending under the pressure, ready to crack. He felt the bones give way, feeling a flash of stabbing, white-hot pain as the broken shards pierced into his brain.

He knew it should have killed him, but it didn't. It couldn't. Not here. Death was a release, and there would be no release… for either of them.

He couldn't see. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't scream. All he knew was pain.

Then he winked of out existence.

* * *

Sam arched away from the chair as his soul came crashing back into his body. He threw back his head, neck muscles tight cords as his hands clawed at his chest.

Though he was free of Hell, the aftershocks of the demon's attack raged through him. His ears were ringing, and he couldn't draw air into a chest that still felt as if it were being crushed. Pain and confusion had made him forget how to breathe.

He could sense a sudden flurry movement around him, could hear voices--distant, indistinct--but he couldn't make sense of it. There was too much chaos inside of him to make sense of what was going on the outside.

"Snap out of it, boy!" he heard one of the voices say… _Bobby?_... then felt a stinging slap across his cheek.

Sam drew a gasping breath. The cool air that rushed into his burning lungs was almost painful. He collapsed back down into the chair, tumbling forward. He would have fallen if Bobby hadn't caught him. He could hear a flurry of erratic beeps coming from somewhere behind him, but it wasn't until Doc Gaffney spoke that his head was able to connect the sound to its cause.

"Pulse is too high. If he doesn't calm down, I'll have to administer a sedative."

At the word _sedative_, Sam shook his head. He'd always had an aversion to anything that made him feel like he wasn't in control of himself, which was probably why he was such a lightweight when it came to alcohol. He'd never developed a tolerance. Sam concentrated on getting his pounding heart under control, but if the Doc came at him with a needle, he was taking him down.

"Gaffney!" Clay Atherton interrupted, kneeling beside Charlotte's prone form, a desperate look in his eyes.

"Be there in a minute. I need to see to Sam."

"Go…" gasped Sam, still leaning heavily on Bobby.

"I don't think…"

"I'm _fine_," Sam insisted, still doubled over and not really sounding fine at all.

Gaffney hesitated, looking to Bobby for approval. The man gave a quick nod. Figuring that Bobby knew what Sam could and couldn't handle, the doctor moved over to where Charlotte lay on the couch, unconscious. He pulled Atherton aside, then sat down beside her, taking a quick glance down at the monitor. He pulled a pen light out of his back pocket and lifted each of Charlotte's lids, flashing the light in her eyes.

"What is it? What's wrong with her?"

"Relax," Gaffney said, having trouble keeping the irritation from his voice. He'd had plenty of experience dealing with overbearing, overprotective parents in his profession, but something about Clay Atherton got under his skin. He flicked off the monitor connected to Charlotte and began to remove the leads. "She'll be fine. She just passed out, is all."

"But… why are you taking her off the monitor? Shouldn't you wake her up?"

"I'm taking her off the monitor because her vitals are fine and, no, I'm not going to wake her up. The girl is exhausted. She needs rest." Gaffney put a hand on the other man's shoulder, giving it a little squeeze. "Why don't you go on and carry her upstairs? She'll be a lot more comfortable in her own bed, away from…" he said, purposely pausing and looking over at Sam and Bobby, "…from all the, uh… commotion."

It may have been wrong to play off of Atherton's fears and prejudices, but things would go a lot smoother if the man was out of the way.

Atherton didn't really need to be convinced. Any excuse to get his daughter away from these men was good enough for him. He scooped Charlotte's small frame up in his arms and carried her out of the room, never once looking back.

Gaffney turned back to his other patient. Sam was sitting up now, hands on his knees and eyes closed, while Bobby hovered nearby. He was taking deliberate, slow breaths, breathing through the diaphragm--in through the nose, out through the mouth. Just as the doctor would have ordered. The beeping from the monitor behind him had slowed, gradually returning to normal rhythm.

The doctor smiled, sure that Sam would be all right. The smile faltered, however, at the intense look on Bobby's face. Gaffney was suddenly reminded of his third patient, the reason for everything. He ran across the hall to where Dean lay in his bed.

He wasn't sure what he expected. Dean staring up at him with bleary eyes, weakly asking for water? Dean's body writhing around in the bed, a reaction more similar to Sam's? Whatever it was, he had expected _something_, certainly not this.

The monitors sounded their slow steady beep. Dean was as he'd been since they'd brought him here--unmoving, unchanged.

Gaffney frowned and turned on his heel, heading back to the other room. He wished that he had paid better attention to the details of the plan. He hadn't really wanted to deal with anything but keeping his patients alive. He knew that Sam was supposed to go into Hell, and bring Dean's soul back with him, with the help of Charlotte Atherton. The rest of it was just too scary, and best left to men like Bobby and Sam.

"I don't get it," he said as he came back in the room. "I thought there'd be some sort of reaction. If his soul is back in his body, and all, then…" Gaffney trailed off, afraid he'd just stuck his foot in his mouth. "You _did_ get him… right?"

Sam didn't turn, didn't look. He kept his eyes closed and focused on his breathing, pausing only to respond with a quiet, "Yeah."

The doctor's brows furrowed. He turned his head to look across the hall at Dean, who hasn't budged. The steady beep of monitors insisted that nothing had changed.

"So…. where is he?" Gaffney asked, looking at Bobby and then back to Sam, sure that he missed something. "Where's his soul?"

Sam straightened, slowly opening his eyes to look up at the older men.

They weren't Sam's eyes. They were Dean's.

Sam's eyes had transformed into Dean's lighter shade of hazel-green. They flashed with a pulse of unnatural light before gradually fading, morphing back to Sam's darker, blue-ish green.

Those blue-ish green eyes fell shut. Sam's head cocked slightly to one side, as if he were listening to something only hecould hear. He placed his palm flat on his chest and breathed a single word.

"_Here_."

* * *

A/N: This was the first time that I truly feared I might not finish a story. That was the most horrendous bout of writer's block ever. I think three quarters of the time I tried to write I ended up with my forehead resting on my keyboard. Next time, I'm putting down salt lines before I write. Maybe that will keep the demon writer's block at bay.

Please forgive the long chapter, but I always envision each chapter as a story in itself (even it if does end on a cliffhanger). I just can't bring myself to cut it off to make for easier reading. My apologies.

For those of you that have asked, I will be writing a sequel to my Dark Angel story, The Friggin' Cure. It's up next on my To Do list. The story is completely plotted; I just need to write it.

P.S. – The Metallica song Sam refers to is "No Leaf Clover." It seemed fitting.


	9. War

No Dominion

By Inzane

Disclaimer: I lay no claim to Supernatural or its characters.

Summary: After a year of increasingly desperate research, Sam finally accepts that there is no way to break Dean's deal. But that doesn't mean he's giving up.

A/N: Huge thanks to everyone who has taken a moment to leave a review. They help keep me on the path.

* * *

Chapter 9: War

_Previously…_

"So…. where is he?" Gaffney asked, looking at Bobby and then back to Sam, sure that he missed something. "Where's his soul?"

Sam straightened, slowly opening his eyes to look up at the older men.

They weren't Sam's eyes. They were Dean's.

Sam's eyes had transformed into Dean's lighter shade of hazel-green. They flashed with a pulse of unnatural light before gradually fading, morphing back to Sam's darker, blue-ish green.

Those blue-ish green eyes fell shut. Sam's head cocked slightly to one side, as if he were listening to something only hecould hear. He placed his palm flat on his chest and breathed a single word.

"_Here_."

* * *

"Holy Mother," Gaffney gasped, taking a step back, more than a little bit freaked out by how Sam's eyes had changed. "He's _inside_ you?"

Sam let out a bark of a laugh. After everything he and Dean had been through, he was pretty much bordering on hysteria.

"Sounds kind of dirty when you put it that way, but, essentially, yeah." There was a long pause, and Sam took a couple more deep breaths, still trying to get his heart rate back to normal. Then his brow furrowed. "Why is that, by the way?" he asked, directing the question at Bobby.

The plan had been for Sam to bind Dean's soul to his, and then for Charlotte to pull them out. Charlotte was supposed to deposit Dean's soul back in his own body immediately when they got back. Sam turned his head, and saw that Charlotte was no longer on the couch. His eyes widened, and he had a moment of extreme panic, afraid she had been rushed to the hospital, or worse.

Seeing the fear in Sam's eyes, Bobby put a hand on his shoulder. "She's fine Sam. Passed out, is all. I figure the strain of pulling two of you back was a bit much on her. Must've went under before she could put Dean back. Not much of a surprise, considerin'; such a frail, little thing. I swear, that girl prob'ly don't weigh more than a hundred pounds, soakin' wet."

Sam turned to look at the Doc. "Can't we wake her up?" He wanted his brother back; one-hundred percent, in his own body, back.

Gaffney crossed his arms over his chest and bowed his head as he mentally reviewed Charlotte's condition. "I don't know if that's advisable. The girl's pretty much worn out, and I take it this soulwalker stuff takes a lot of energy. I don't want to risk her coding again."

Bobby rubbed at the scruff on his chin as he thought about it. "I tend to agree, Sam. Even if she can do it, she might not have the energy to get the job done, proper. Dean's soul could end up floatin' around somewhere like a damn ghost. You boys have come too far to risk it goin' wrong now."

Sam's face looked pained. "How long?"

"I think we should let her sleep for at least twenty-four hours."

"A whole day?!" Sam exclaimed, coming to his feet. He swayed a bit, and Bobby had to reach out to steady him.

Gaffney had taken an involuntary step back. When someone as big as Sam Winchester came at you, well-meaning or not, you couldn't help but take a step back. The doctor looked to Bobby to back him up. "I imagine, if she wakes before then and feels up to it, you could go ahead with… whatever it is she does. But I really don't think she'll wake up until sometime tomorrow."

Sam shook his head. His brother's soul was going to be stuck inside of his body for a whole day, maybe more. It was already feeling kind of crowded in there. "Great. Just great."

"Come on, Sam, it won't be that bad," Bobby said. "You two are out of Hell, at least. All you got to do is just sit around, twiddle your thumbs. Take it easy for once. Then Charlotte can put Dean's soul back in his body."

"Like when they put Spock back in Star Trek 3."

Sam and Bobby both did a double take when they realized that those words had indeed come from Sam's mouth. It wasn't something Sam would say. It was Dean.

"Well," Bobby said, raising his eyebrows, "this should be interesting."

* * *

Sam stood in the library, hands in his pockets as he stared down at his brother's body, while he carried his brother's soul inside of him. It was definitely a weird experience--even for a Winchester, whose life was defined by weird.

He felt odd. Heavier, somehow, as if Dean's soul had a physical weight. Knowing Dean, it probably did. His big brother had always been a force to be reckoned with, even when they were kids. It wasn't skin or muscle or bone that made him that way; it was what was on the inside, the intangible thing that made Dean _Dean_.

All that made Dean _Dean_ now rest inside of Sam… precious cargo, carrying with it a responsibility that in itself was a weighty burden to bear.

Sam reached up, closing his hand over Dean's amulet, which still hung around his neck. It felt warm against the flesh of his palm. He'd promised to hold on to it for Dean, but he couldn't give it back. Not yet. Not until his brother was entirely back where he belonged.

Just one more day.

Assuming Dean's body could wait that long. The steady, sluggish beep of the monitors and sound of air being forced into his brother's lungs suggested there was a chance that maybe he couldn't.

"Just hang on, Dean," Sam said quietly. "You're almost home."

* * *

Sam found himself roaming around the house. He couldn't seem to sit still. Every time he sat down, he'd find himself up and pacing a few minutes later. He couldn't tell if it was his anxiety or Dean's that was pushing at him. It didn't matter, really. The end result was the same.

He rounded a corner, into what looked to be some sort of sunroom, and came to a complete stop as he caught sight of _her_.

There was a young woman--probably close to Dean's age, maybe a little younger--sitting cross-legged on the floor, chanting. Long, auburn hair trailed down her back in waves. The sun hit it just right, setting off coppery highlights that made her seem almost unearthly. Sam figured she must be part of Atherton's coven, which meant she was a witch.

Damn. Winchesters and witches didn't mix too well, in general.

There was a large, flat bowl of water in front of her. She picked up some herbs from a smaller bowl on the side and leaned over to cast them into the water, revealing nice curves and a bare stretch of her lower back.

Hmmm. She may have been a witch, but she was a damn fine-looking witch…at least, from the backside, anyway. And he liked a girl that didn't go for the cliché of the tramp stamp.

Sam sidled into the room, looking around casually to verify they were alone. It just so happened that they were. Might as well take advantage of the situation. "So where's your wand?"

"Pardon me?" the girl asked between chants, not taking her eyes from the bowl in front of her.

"You know… your wand. Don't all pretty, good little witches have wands?"

The girl's lips quirked, but she refused to look at him. Never let a guy get the upper hand. She sniffed, affecting disinterest. "You're thinking of Glenda. Real witches don't need that kind of hardware."

Sam crouched down beside her. "I bet they don't. Shame. You'd look great in one of those sparkly gowns."

Okay, _that_ broke her concentration. If he thought he was going to get anywhere with his lame pickup lines, he had another thing coming.

"Don't you have anything better to do?" she asked, turning her head, as she finally looked at him.

_Damn_. He was _hot_.

He ducked his head as if chastised, then looked at her from under artfully disheveled hair and ridiculously long eyelashes. How did a guy get eyelashes like that, anyway? It just wasn't right.

"How could there possibly be anything better to do than talking to a beautiful woman?" he replied, and, oh, Hell, she was falling for it. "I'm Sam," he said, holding out his hand. His seriously large hand, with long fingers that looked like they could…

She cut that thought off, clearing her throat as she took his hand. "Renee."

"Renee," Sam repeated, drawling out her name in a way that made her think of sex and chocolate--two of her favorite things, not always in that order--as he tugged her to her feet.

Not a good idea, she told herself. He's a hunter. Clay said he was dangerous. But he didn't look dangerous, and he hadn't let go of her hand, and he was caressing it in a way that made her go all warm and tingly inside. But, wait a minute, she had important stuff to do…

She pulled her hand out of his. "I…I really need to get back to what I was doing, Sam."

"Why bother? You don't need to keep up the ritual, now that my brother and I have escaped from Hell. The other protections will be enough to keep the bad guys away. And if not, well… I'll be here to protect you. "

Renee felt a chill run down her spine. Clay had been upfront with everyone about the Winchester brothers. He'd wanted to give everyone a chance to back out, if they wanted. She hadn't. She'd jumped at the chance for a little excitement. Hell? Demons? Definitely a lot more exciting than her job at the bank. Unfortunately, it hadn't really been that exciting; just a lot of chanting as the coven laid down the protection spell. But this guy… Sam… he'd been to Hell and back, supposedly, and lived to tell about it. The things he must have seen…

"What was it like?" she asked, compelled by morbid curiosity.

"I don't know," Sam hedged. "I really shouldn't… I mean… I wouldn't want to scare you. The things I could tell you…." He took a step closer to her, eyes traveling down her body then back up to her face. "I could blow your mind."

_Is it getting hot in here?_

"I'll bet you could."

_Shit. I said that out loud._

Sam smiled at her, and, dammit, he had dimples. A big, beautiful smile and dimples--seriously not fair. How was a girl supposed to resist that kind of lethal combination?

He took another step closer to her, so close that you could have slid a piece of paper in between them, but not much else. He was looming over her, and she found herself leaning her head back so she could stare up into his pretty, hazel-green eyes of his.

"Why don't we find someplace quiet and talk," Sam said, his voice smooth and sexy as he trailed the fingertips of his right hand down her bare arm. "I'm sure there are a lot of empty rooms, a house this big. We could…" His voice lowered an octave as he leaned in close, lips almost touching hers. "…discuss it."

Renee made a small noise of surrender and closed her eyes, waiting for him to kiss her. Looks like she'd found a little excitement after all.

She yelped when he was suddenly jerked away.

An older man in a trucker hat--what did Clay say his name was? Bobby?--had a tight hold on Sam's arm. "Don't mind him, miss. He's not himself," Bobby said, nodding to her in acknowledgment, before he dragged Sam to the other side of the room.

Hmmph. So much for excitement.

As soon as they were across the room, Bobby gave Sam a little shake. "Snap out of it, boy." Sam's eyes immediately bled from Dean's hazel-green back to their normal color.

Sam tugged his arm out of Bobby's grip, face a mix of confusion and anger. "What?" he said in protest, completely unaware of why Bobby had a death grip on his arm but definitely not liking it. He wasn't a little kid anymore.

Bobby gave him a slight eye-roll, then gestured to the other side of the room. Sam turned and saw a pretty girl standing there, slightly flushed and watching him with definite interest.

"Oh," Sam said, not really sure what the girl had to do with anything. She was pretty; not really his type, more like the kind of girl Dean would go for, but then again, any girl was the kind of girl that Dean would go for, and… "_Oh_."

Bobby poked him in the chest. "We need to get your brother out of there before he does something you'll regret."

Sam swallowed hard, grimacing. "Yeah."

No way, no how was he interested in any kind of three-way, metaphysical or not, that involved his brother. Absolutely _NO_.

"Come on, kid," Bobby said, clapping Sam on the arm. "We'll distract him with food."

"Good idea," Sam said half-heartedly, nodding. His eyes were still locked on the girl. He couldn't seem to tear them away.

From somewhere down the hall, he heard Bobby yelling, "Sam!"

Sam jumped, startled out of his fascination. "Coming!" he shouted, and hurried after Bobby.

* * *

Sam was eating a huge sandwich. His second.

Bobby took a sip of his beer, eyeing Sam as he took another bite. Sam Winchester, who didn't have an ounce of fat on his body. Ah, to be young again. "Don't know where you put it, boy."

"Not me," Sam said between bites. "It's Dean. I don't usually eat like this."

"So it's your brother that's makin' you eat like there's no tomorrow?"

"Yeah. He's kind of like this… I don't know, _compulsion_ in my head, or something. I swear, he's somehow given me his appetite." An image of the auburn-haired girl flashed through his mind. _In more ways than one._

Bobby smiled ruefully as he thought about the elder Winchester; he didn't have any more fat on him than Sam did. "Well, I don't know where he puts it, either."

"Probably works it off during sex," Sam shot back around a mouthful of sandwich.

Bobby closed his eyes. "I did _not_ need to know that."

Sam plopped his sandwich back down on the plate, a look of extreme irritation on his face as he gesticulated wildly, in typical Sam fashion. "_See?!_ This is exactly what I mean. It's like I don't even have control of myself!"

Bobby shrugged. "You _are_ possessed, Sam. Happens it's your brother's soul and not some malevolent spirit, but still, possessed is possessed.

"Don't remind me. It's seriously creeping me out," Sam muttered, shifting uncomfortably as he took a long pull from his bottle of beer.

Growing up, the Winchesters had never had a lot of money. They'd had to share everything: clothes, toys (when they had them), and occasionally a bed. Sam had never had a problem with that. Sharing a body, however, was taking it a little too far.

He fell silent for a moment, and Bobby though he might have been done bitching, but then Sam slapped his bottle down on the table and leaned forward. "And another thing… Zeppelin."

Bobby's eyebrows shot up. "Zeppelin?"

"Led Zeppelin! It keeps running through my head. "Ramble On," "Black Dog," friggin' "Stairway to Heaven," Bobby!"

Bobby tried not to laugh. He really tried.

"It's not funny!" Sam yelled. "I think he's doing it on purpose."

"Prob'ly is."

"Well, I wish he'd cut it out already."

Bobby gave him a look that said _Have you __**met **__your brother, Sam? _"Chances of that are slim to none, I'd say."

Sam glowered at the look on Bobby's face. Didn't he understand the severity of the situation, here? He tore a bite of his sandwich and chewed angrily. Then he paused, rolling his eyes upward.

"Just remember, you started it, Dean," he muttered. "And payback's a bitch."

* * *

Sam passed Bobby in the hall as he made his way back to the library, laptop bag slung over his shoulder.

"Whatcha doin', Sam?" Bobby asked, instantly suspicious. That boy was up to something. He knew it.

Sam spun around, sporting a wide-eyed look that had nothing to do with innocence. "Oh, nothing much. Figured I'd do a little research. You know, to, uh, pass the time."

Bobby's eyes narrowed.

Sam backed away. "So, I'd, uh, better get to it. My research." Sam averted his eyes and spun on his heel, blurting out, "Later, Bobby," before disappearing into the library, closing the doors behind him.

Yep. Definitely up to something.

Bobby shook his head and sighed. He was pretty sure he knew what was coming. He'd seen it when they were kids, and it always meant trouble.

"Those boys're enough to drive a man to drink," he groused. Then he went off in search of one.

* * *

In the library, Sam sat at the desk as he booted up his laptop. Dean's body was lying in bed on the other side of the room, peacefully awaiting the return of its owner. Dean's soul, however, was not so peaceful.

Sam could feel his brother's soul restlessly stirring, apprehensive about what Sam had planned. Dean didn't really _know_ what he had planned; although they were currently sharing the same body, they weren't sharing the same brainwaves. Except for a few random thoughts (and friggin' non-stop Zeppelin music), they were unable to communicate. They couldn't read each other's thoughts.

Which was a good thing, because Dean would've rioted if he knew what was coming.

As Sam began surfing the web, he could feel Dean relax a bit. Probably figured it was just Sam being geek-boy Sam. In fact, when Sam felt a strange compulsion to take a side trip to a certain dot com involving busty asian beauties, he wasn't really surprised.

"I don't think so, Dean. I've got something else in mind."

About two minutes later, Dean figured out what his brother planned to do.

Sam's arm suddenly felt like lead. It was hard to move the mouse, hard to click. Dean was resisting him for all he was worth. Sam's eyes flashed to Dean's hazel and back again several times as the older brother struggled to take control of the younger. Sam gritted his teeth and focused on blocking him.

Sam growled with effort as he slowly moved the mouse pointer across the screen. _Come on, just one more click..._ He thought he heard Dean screaming _No! No! No!_ inside of his head. "Yes!" Sam cried out as he hit the mouse button.

He shifted in the desk chair as he waited for the computer to finish its task. He felt weird. Like he wanted to run and stay at the same time. Apprehension mixed with glee. He figured his and Dean's emotions were getting all mixed up.

The computer beeped at him, signaling the task was complete. With a grin that was maybe just a touch evil, he reached forward and clicked _PLAY_.

Sam leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms and stretching out his long legs, as he settled in to watch one of the most chick-est chick flicks of all time.

Beaches.

He felt like he was flailing inside, but he knew it was Dean. Sam's smile was smug and satisfied as he made sure his eyes remained glued to the screen.

"You asked for it, man."

* * *

Sam bent over the sink in the bathroom off the kitchen, splashing cold water on his face. God, he was tired. As if sitting through Beaches wasn't bad enough (though it had definitely been worth it), he'd had to fight Dean through the entire two hour movie. Every time he relaxed his guard, Dean had tried to make his body bail out of there.

Sam grabbed a small towel and dried his face. He set it aside and leaned heavily against the sink top, staring at his reflection in the mirror.

The past year had taken a toll on him. He looked like he hadn't slept in months (and he hadn't; not much, anyway), and he'd definitely lost some weight. His hair was a shaggy mess, hanging down in his eyes more than it usually did.

He ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it away from his face. It _was_ getting kind of long.

Sam straightened. He reached forward and pulled open the medicine cabinet. His eyes scanned the shelves, then finally came to rest on a pair of expensive-looking scissors with gold-plated handles. The back of the cabinet was mirrored, and he caught a glimpse of his reflection as he reached for the shears.

Bright, hazel eyes, full of mischief.

Sam slammed the cabinet shut, practically on his own fingers. He watched as his eyes bled back to their normal blue-green.

Sam glowered at his reflection. "Don't even think about it."

Sam stomped out of bathroom, muttering several none-too-flattering epithets for older brothers.

He could swear that he heard Dean laughing.

* * *

Sam stormed into the library, a determined look on his face. He headed right for Dean's body, and he could feel his brother trying to stop him, as if he suspected he was due for a haircut of his own. But as Sam came up beside the bed he crouched, reaching underneath it instead.

Sam pushed aside Dean's duffel bag of clothes, which Sam had insisted on bringing in when they'd first brought Dean to the Athertons'. He'd had no doubt in his mind that Dean would need it, because he was going to rescue his brother from Hell, end of story. And he had. He just… hadn't been able to finish the job.

Sam reached behind the bag, pulling out a small cardboard box, purposely rattling the contents so that Dean would hear. The small pieces of plastic clattered together, and Dean instantly began to panic.

Sam reached in and plucked out a black cassette holding it up to the light for inspection. His brother's handwriting was scrawled across the label in black, permanent marker.

AC/DC.

Sam had brought the box of tapes inside when he'd brought the duffel bag, thinking that he could play some music for Dean--well, Dean's body, anyway--while Sam was busy trying save him from Hell. When he'd asked Charlotte if she had a tape deck around, Charlotte had pretty much looked at him like he'd grown a second head, so that plan had been nixed. He'd stuffed the box under the bed with Dean's bag and had forgotten about it. Until now.

He reached for the delicate thread of tape that held some of Dean's most treasured songs. He snagged the tape with his fingernail and pulled lightly, until he could loop his finger behind it.

He wouldn't really have destroyed it, but Dean didn't know that, because Sam kept repeating the lyrics to "Back in Black" in his head so Dean wouldn't pick up on that little fact. Sam succeeded; to Dean, the threat was very real, and he took action.

Sam's entire right arm froze, his eyes flickering hazel-green and back, over and over.

No matter what Sam did, he couldn't move his right arm. Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead, and it scared him a bit to see how fully Dean could control him, if he put some serious effort into it.

"Dude. You were going to cut my _hair_," Sam said through gritted teeth. "We've both taken this a little too far already. We need to end it before it gets out of control."

Sam sat there, holding out the tape in midair, for a good fifteen seconds before he felt his brother's control of his arm begin to waver.

"Truce?" Sam asked hopefully.

Without warning, Sam's arm dropped to his side as Dean released him. He took that for agreement.

"Good," Sam said, and carefully began to wind AC/DC back onto the spool.

* * *

Sam was back at his laptop. He decided he really should do a little bit of research before he closed it down; that way, it wasn't like he'd told Bobby a complete lie. Leaning his chin heavily on one hand and listing slightly to the left, he began to search the usual sites, looking for any signs of paranormal activity.

He must have nodded off for bit, because he jerked awake suddenly when his elbow slid of the edge of the desk. He blinked blearily a few times, then sat bolt upright as he remembered where he was and who was currently a passenger inside his body. He looked down at his computer, instantly suspicious.

The screensaver was on. He wiggled the mouse, and his screen reverted to his search screen, the last thing he remembered having open. Huh. Everything seemed to be okay.

Sam shrugged off the feeling, chalking it up to the aftereffects of some dream. (And thank God he didn't remember the details, because, with Dean riding shotgun, who knew what kind of dreams he would have?)

He decided to check his email before he shut his laptop down. He yawned, eyes heavy, as he clicked on the first message, not even paying attention to the address of the sender. He was just too damn tired.

What popped up on screen sure woke him up.

A woman was bent over a wooden fence, wearing nothing but a cowboy hat, boots, and a look of ecstasy. Her ass was thrust out toward her partner and… "Ugh. Is that a… _donkey?_" Sam turned his head to the side, face crinkling in disgust, yet unable to look away. It was like train wreck. "Is that even anatomically possible…?"

He shook himself and clicked delete.

The second email was tamer, compared to the first. Except that it involved four men and a woman that had to be eighty if she was a day. Sam quickly clicked delete.

There was a bunch more: spam from various porn sites, each one weirder and more deviant than the last. There were tons of emails confirming membership to these various sites, all registered under the name of one Sam Winchester.

"Dammit, Dean!"

* * *

As soon as Marcus Gaffney walked into the kitchen, intent on coffee, he came to an abrupt halt.

There, standing beside the coffee maker, was Sam, wild-eyed and a looking a little jittery. He had a large cup of coffee in his hand, and he was downing it like it was a shot of tequila instead of a cup of joe. He poured another, then downed that one as well.

"Don't you think you oughtta slow down, there, son?" Gaffney asked, hesitant to walk further into the kitchen. "You'll be up for days."

"Can't sleep," Sam replied, his words clipped and a little bit spooky. "Dean'll get me if I sleep."

"Okaaaay," Gaffney said, raising his eyebrows. He slowly backed away.

Coffee could wait.

* * *

Later, Sam found himself outside, staring at the Impala. Dean had apparently wanted to check on his baby. Sam didn't really see a problem with that, so he'd gone along without a fuss. He hoped the fresh air might help keep him awake.

Sam slid into the driver's seat, smile wide as he reached up and caressed the wheel. He froze, catching himself in the act, then raised his eyebrows.

"Somethin' you wanna tell me about you and the car, Dean?"

He had an almost irresistible urge to flip himself off.

Sam laughed and reached up to push his hair out of his eyes. Speaking of which…

"It's gonna be a while yet until Charlotte's awake. Why don't we take her for a spin, huh?"

First Rule of Winchester Prank Wars: lull the sibling into a false sense of security.

They'd been driving for about ten minutes when he began his attack. "How 'bout a little music, huh?" Sam asked innocently. "Your tapes are still at the house, but I think I might have something…"

Coming to a stop at a red light, Sam leaned over and reached under the passenger seat. "Come on, where is it… aha!" he exclaimed as his fingers closed over the object.

Sam pulled a cassette tape from under the seat. It had been there for so long he'd almost forgotten about it. On the label was listed: _IN CASE OF EMERGENCY._

"I've got just the thing," Sam said, smile breaking out as he slid the tape in.

Some sort of emo, alt rock, college music blared from the speakers. Screechy guitars, too much bass, and some guy whining off-key, probably about how much his trust-fund, party-all-the-time, get-laid-by-sorority-girls life sucked.

Emo college music. In Dean's baby.

Sam's arms jerked wildly, and the car veered to the right.

Okay, maybe it hadn't been such a good plan.

"Hey! Cut it out!" Sam yelled, struggling to regain control. "You want me to wreck the car?" Sam purposely brought to mind an image of the Impala, after the semi had sideswiped it. "Again?"

Dean immediately settled down, the threat of harm to his baby greater than the threat of harm to her speakers. Sam could feel his simmering anger, and it made him smile. Dean could be so predictable.

"Suck it up, brother," Sam quipped. He turned the volume up and laughed.

He was so busy enjoying his victory, that he didn't really notice anything unusual about the stop he was compelled to make on his way home. Or the bottle of Johnny Walker Blue in a bag on the seat next to him.

Sam wasn't the only one who knew the First Rule of Winchester Prank Wars.

* * *

On the way back, Sam was singing aloud with the music at the top of his lungs (though frequently screwing up the lyrics), when his phone rang. He checked the screen, then answered. "Yeah, Bobby?"

_Sam? Where the hell are you? _

"Dean and I are just taking the car out for a spin."

_You've gotta be kidding me. Lilith and Ruby are still out there. You two just busted out of Hell and you decide to take a joyride? Are you outta your minds? And what the hell is that __**noise**__?!_

Sam leaned forward quick to lower the volume, coasting to a stop for a red light. "Sorry. Umm… just a little driving music."

There was a distinct pause. Sam could practically see the stern look on Bobby's face.

_Sam, are you tormenting your brother?_

Sam felt his face immediately get hot. "Well, I... don't know if… I mean…"

_**Sam.**_

"He started it!" Sam winced at the way the words came out. He sounded like a ten-year old.

_I don't give a damn who started it. Get your dumb asses back here, pronto._

Bobby disconnected. Sam frowned and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. Then he learned forward and clicked off the music. His lower lip jutted out in a pout.

"You got us in trouble."

Dean couldn't respond in words, but Sam got an overwhelming sense of righteous indignation. Which he had to grudgingly admit was indeed righteous, since it had in fact been Sam's prank that had gotten them into trouble.

"Well… you started it," Sam repeated. Sam rolled his eyes at the juvenile comeback, then let his head fall forward until it thunked against the steering wheel.

_Dammit, Dean, I have to get your soul out of my body soon, before I completely revert to prepubescent behavior._

"Light's green, moron!" Sam heard from somewhere to his right, with a squeal of tires as the driver behind them pulled around. Sam didn't raise his head from the steering wheel, just lifted his hand in a one-fingered salute.

_See what I mean?_

* * *

Bobby frowned, rubbing his tired eyes as he looked up from his book on demonology. He was hoping to find something they could use against Ruby and Lilith, but he couldn't seem to concentrate, because it was quiet. Too quiet.

"Ah, hell," Bobby grumbled. He snapped his book shut and went off in search of Sam.

He suspected Sam was in the library, with Dean. Probably because, for the most part, he seemed to like to keep Dean's soul as close to Dean's body as possible. Or Dean did. With those two sharing the same body, who could tell?

Bobby slid open the double doors and had his suspicions confirmed when Sam, who must have been leaning against the doors, practically fell out on top of him.

"Bobby, you gotta help me," Sam said desperately, grabbing the front of other man's shirt, either to drive home the seriousness of the situation, or to keep himself upright. Most likely both.

The elder hunter turned his head and leaned away from Sam, or, more specifically, Sam's breath. The kid reeked of hard liquor. "What the hell, boy?" It wasn't that Sam never drank; it was that Sam could never drink that much, especially the hard stuff, without getting plastered.

Which, apparently, he was.

"'S'Dean! He's gonna shave my head 'n make me go find some fugly girl to have sex with! I know he is!"

Bobby grabbed Sam's wrists and firmly yanked his hands away from his shirt, but keeping his hold on the youngest Winchester. "How much have you had to drink?"

Sam's eyes rolled upward as he tried to think, and a wave of dizziness hit him. Bobby grabbed his shoulders to steady him, scowling his disapproval. "Jesus, Sam, why'd you go and do a damn fool thing like get yourself drunk?"

"Wasn't me! It was Dean. One minute, he's convincing me to have a cele… cel'bratory drink, and the next, I've downed ha'f a bottle of scotch!"

"Dean got you drunk," Bobby said, deadpan.

"Yes! That's his big plan! Get me drunk so he can take over!" Sam shuddered as he remembered the scissors. "He's gonna make me go sing karaoke, Bobby. You've got to stop him."

"All right, I've had about enough of this."

Bobby grabbed Sam by his upper arm and dragged him out of the library. Even though Sam had a distinct height and age advantage over the elder hunter, he let himself be dragged along, as if he were still a child.

Bobby tugged Sam through the house to the small bathroom near the kitchen. He shoved the younger, much taller man into the shower stall and twisted the knob full on to cold.

Sam yelped; inside, Dean's soul did the equivalent of the same.

Bobby leveled a finger at Sam (and at Dean, who had apparently decided to make the most of his current situation). "You two are gonna knock this shit off right now, or so help me, I'll make that girl put Sam in Dean's body and you can both live in each other's skin for a week."

Sam blanched, envisioning what Dean would do running around in his body, unsupervised. "You wouldn't."

"Wanna try me?"

Sam looked down at the ground. "Sorry, Bobby," he said meekly. "We'll be good."

Bobby was instantly reminded of that time when Sam was eight and Dean was twelve, and John had dropped them off over the Thanksgiving holiday. Sam and Dean had gotten into his books, each creating a fort on opposite sides of the room and proceeding to send a barrage of missiles (balled-up newspaper) at each other. They had completely messed up his organizational system. Okay, it hadn't looked organized, but Bobby had known where everything was. _Had_ being the important part. He'd give them a good talking to, though it was hard to stay mad when Sam would stare at you with those big eyes and sad frown, begging to be forgiven. Kind of like he was now.

Of course, in those situations, Dean had always wisely taken advantage of Sam's puppy dog eyes and let his brother do all of the apologizing and promising. That way, people would assume that Sam spoke for both of them, and Dean didn't really have to agree to any promises that Sam would make.

Bobby forced his face to remain stern. If those boys found out he was getting all nostalgic, they'd use it against him for sure. "Your brother agree to that?"

Sam paused and his eyes unfocused as he searched within, getting a sense of Dean's feelings on the matter. He nodded. "Yessir."

"Good. Now I'm gonna go ask the Doc how long he thinks it'll be before Charlotte'll be up, and we can separate you two knuckleheads. _You_" he said, leveling a finger at Sam, "stay there and sober up."

Wet hair in his eyes, Sam stood in the shower, shoulders sagging and a pout on his face as cold water rained down on him. Dean's soul felt entirely too smug inside of his body.

"And quit gettin' your little brother drunk, Dean," Bobby shot back over his shoulder as he left the room. Dean's smugness deflated.

After he figured Bobby was out of earshot, Sam reached over and turned off the water with a defiant twist. He didn't stick out his tongue, but it was a near miss.

He tried to get out of the shower, but the cold water hadn't sobered him up enough to bring coordination back to his limbs. Or maybe it was Dean making sure that coordination did not come back to his limbs. Not that it really mattered, because the result was the same. He caught one of his boots on the lip of the stall. He reeled back, trying to keep himself from falling forward, but he overcompensated and slipped. He ended up landing on his ass instead of his face, sending up a spray of water and smacking his head on the back of the stall.

"Ow," Sam groaned, reaching back and gingerly touching the sore spot on the back of his skull.

He could swear that he heard Dean laughing in his head again.

"Shut up, Dean."

* * *

A/N: Okay, maybe not the war you might have been imagining from the chapter title, given the way the rest of this story has gone, but I think it's entirely appropriate, considering Sam and Dean's current situation. And besides, it's a lot easier to write!

One more chapter to go, plus an epilogue.


	10. Second Chances

No Dominion

By Inzane

Disclaimer: I lay no claim to Supernatural or its characters.

Summary: After a year of increasingly desperate research, Sam finally accepts that there is no way to break Dean's deal. But that doesn't mean he's giving up.

A/N: Thank you so much for joining me for this little journey to Hell and back. I hope you enjoyed the ride.

* * *

Chapter 10: Second Chances

Fortunately, for the sake of Sam's hair (and possibly his virtue), as well as Bobby's sanity, it wasn't long until Charlotte was up and ready to, as Bobby had so aptly put it, separate the knuckleheads.

As Charlotte did a little bit of meditation to clear her head before the transfer, Bobby noticed that Sam (and Dean as well, he supposed) became strangely subdued. Considering their earlier antics, it seemed kind of weird... almost as if they were afraid to go through with it.

And now he was stuck pacing the kitchen floor, banished. Charlotte had insisted that only Sam and Dean be in the room with her, and that everyone else be far enough away so that she could concentrate her focus solely on the Winchesters without any background interference. Both Bobby and Doc Gaffney had protested--each for their separate reasons--and Clay Atherton had pretty much forbid it altogether, but Charlotte would not be moved. He had to respect her for that. For a slip of a girl, she was quite a force to be reckoned with.

"I'm sure they'll be fine, Bobby," Gaffney said from his seat at the kitchen table, hands clasped around a cup of coffee. "Stop pacing, will you? You're making me dizzy."

"Of course they'll be fine," Bobby said, sitting down on the chair across from Gaffney. "Hard part's over." He sipped at his coffee for about fifteen seconds, then popped back up again to pace.

Gaffney sighed and stared down into his coffee. The next pot was going to be decaf.

* * *

Sam repositioned the two chairs next to Dean's bed for the third time, a worried look on his face. "_Sam_," Charlotte admonished gently, and it snapped him out of his OCD-like activity.

He straightened. "Sorry," he said, rubbing his sweaty palms against his jeans.

This was it. Just one last hurdle and he would have his brother back. There would be no more looming death sentence. No more deals with demons. They would finally be able to put this horrible year behind them.

And all he could think about was a dozen things that could go wrong.

Charlotte reached out and touched his arm lightly, then gestured to the chair closest to Dean. "You sit there, okay?"

They both sat. Charlotte reached out to grasp Sam's hand and then Dean's. She wasn't really sure if she needed the physical contact for what she was about to do, but she figured it couldn't hurt. And besides, it wasn't like she got a lot of chances to hold the hand of a gorgeous guy, much less two gorgeous guys.

She stilled, taking a deep breath and then releasing it, slow and steady. She tuned everything else out--the sound of their breathing, Dean's respirator, the ticking clock--and let her eyes unfocus as she looked with her other sight.

At first, what she saw confused her. She wasn't used to seeing two souls in such close proximity. Every time she tried to get a sense of Dean, Sam seemed to block her, though she knew that he wasn't doing it on purpose. His reactions were involuntary, based on an instinctive need to protect his brother.

Charlotte's hands tightened on theirs as she sharpened her focus, pushing past Sam's resistance.

_There_.

Her breath caught in her throat. Dean was so bright and beautiful--so very much like Sam, and yet, not. He seemed to burn brighter, somehow, though she hadn't thought that was possible. But Dean's fire was different, more reminiscent of a candle burning wildly, consuming itself until it burnt out.

As bright as his soul was... she wasn't sure if she could ever adequately describe what she saw. Dean's soul seemed fragmented, tattered. It was as if he had been torn apart and put back together a thousand times, and the pieces didn't quite fit anymore. She couldn't really tell if all of it had happened in Hell, or if some of it was from before. From what Sam had told her, they hadn't led easy lives. She reached out to touch him.

_A house. A field. A red sky. _

Charlotte's head jerked, forehead wrinkling as the strange image flashed through her mind. It was so vivid, like nothing she'd ever experienced before.

_Sam._

Charlotte's breath quickened, heart pounding as everything that had happened to Dean in Hell suddenly poured over her in a rush.

_Sam. _

_Burned. Decapitated. Gutted. Skinned. Drowned. Eaten. _

_Dead. Dead. Dead. Undead._

She shook her head, hoping in vain that she could make the images disappear.

_Fingers ripping. Teeth tearing. Blood. Pain. Fear. Agony. Death after death after death…._

Charlotte cried out, closing herself off from Dean as she propelled herself out of the chair. She stumbled toward the window, gasping for breath.

Too much. It was too much.

"Wait. What…?" Sam said, but Charlotte barely heard him. She felt like she couldn't breathe. She rushed to the window, fumbling with the latch before she was able to shove it open. She leaned out, desperately needing the fresh air.

Sam was there an instant after she was, an alarmed look on his face. "Are you okay? What happened? Did something go wrong?"

Charlotte leaned heavily against the window frame, feeling shaky. "I'm sorry. I wasn't prepared."

"Prepared for what?"

Charlotte had thought that Sam must have felt the same impressions she had gotten from Dean's soul, since there was such a close connection between them. "You haven't… you didn't…?" From the look of confusion on his face, and she could see that he had not. She trailed off, thinking maybe she had said too much.

"Prepared for what?" Sam repeated with a bit more vehemence. Charlotte looked down and bit her bottom lip, reluctant to say any more, but Sam's patience had pretty much come to an end. "Charlotte, _what?!_" he snapped, grabbing her elbow.

Charlotte buckled under the strength of Sam's grip, and he immediately let go. She reached down to rub her arm. Sam would not take no for an answer; not when his brother was involved. "He's shielding you from it, then."

"Shielding me..."

"What happened to him. While he was… _there_."

"What _did_ happen to him?" Sam said, taking another step toward her. He figured this was his only shot to find out what had happened to Dean while he was alone in Hell. He knew Dean well enough to know that his brother would never willingly volunteer the information.

Charlotte wanted to give Sam what he wanted, but she knew it wasn't her place. She shook her head. "I sorry. You'll have to ask Dean."

Sam took a worried look at Dean, then turned back to Charlotte. "Is he…" and his voice failed him. How could Dean's soul have been roaming around in his body for a whole day and he'd gotten no hint of what Charlotte had felt? "Is he okay?"

Charlotte smiled sadly. She wished she could tell Sam what he wanted to hear, but that wouldn't be fair, to Sam or to Dean. "I don't know, Sam. I don't know how anyone could be okay after what he's been through. His soul, it's… " She paused, trying to think of a way to explain what she'd felt. "… damaged."

Sam nodded and looked away, eyes shiny with unshed tears. Ruby had said something similar about his brother, when she'd ripped Dean's soul from his body: a_ bruised and battered soul_. If he'd already been bruised and battered before the demon had taken him, what shape would he be in now, after all that had happened to him in Hell? Sam searched within, trying to get a sense of his brother, but Dean was unusually quiet.

"I've never really done this before," Charlotte continued. She had to be honest with him. He deserved that much, and more. "I can put Dean's soul back where it belongs, but … I don't know if it will work. I imagine it would be like putting a damaged organ back into a transplant patient. His body could reject it."

The blood drained from Sam's face. After everything they had gone through, to fail now…

He felt Dean pushing at him, straining to take control. He nodded in silent agreement, then said to Charlotte, "I umm… I think Dean wants to talk to you."

When Charlotte nodded, Sam closed his eyes and let go, willingly giving up control to his brother. When he opened his eyes again, they flashed a bright hazel-green, faintly glowing in the dim light of the library.

"What would happen to me?" Dean asked with Sam's voice, yet not Sam's, eyes intently searching Charlotte's face. "If it doesn't work."

Charlotte glanced down, unable to stand against the scrutiny of those eyes. "You'd become a lost soul."

"You mean a ghost."

Charlotte looked back up at him. If he could deal with it, then so could she. "Yes."

Dean smiled crookedly at her, and it was amazing how different it was from Sam's smile, even though it was Sam's mouth, Sam's face. "Not like we really have any other options, here."

"I don't imagine two souls could inhabit the same body for long. Especially two souls as strong as yours."

He laughed, but it was bitter. "It _is_ getting kinda of crowded in here. Figures. Sam always did hog the bed when we had to share."

Dean turned Sam's body and walked over to the bed. He looked down on himself. It was weird, looking at yourself through someone else's eyes. It gave a whole new meaning to the phrase _out of body experience_. He looked younger, somehow, through his brother's eyes. The scars that had always stood out glaringly when he looked in the mirror faded away, becoming less important. Looking through Sam's eyes, he could almost believe that he was a hero.

"If I become a…" Dean began, then hesitated. He couldn't say ghost, couldn't imagine becoming the thing he has hunted all his life. "…a lost soul, would you take me to the other side?" He turned to look at Charlotte. "You can do that, right? The whole soulwalker thing?"

She wasn't really sure if she could. She'd never done it before--at least, not to the place where Dean surely wanted to go. She didn't have the heart to tell him that, so she said simply, "Yes."

He turned back toward the bed, closing his eyes. "Good. I don't want Sammy to have to salt and burn me." The memory came to him unbidden; standing beside his brother as their father's body burned. "I can't put him through something like that again."

Charlotte didn't know what to say to that, stunned by the reality of the lives of Sam and Dean Winchester.

Dean fell silent, and Charlotte thought for a moment that he'd released Sam, when he spoke again. "Tell Sammy, whatever happens, it was worth it."

Sam's knees buckled as Dean gave up control, and Sam had to reach out and catch the edge of the bed to keep from falling. Head bowed and hands fisted in the sheets, he tried to get a grip on the fear running rampant inside of him. When Charlotte's hand came to rest on his shoulder, he flinched.

Charlotte drew her hand away. She gave him a moment to collect himself, then gently asked, "Are you ready?"

Sam nodded, not trusting his voice. He sat back down next to bed, taking Dean's hand in his and gripping it tight. Charlotte sat down next to him, laying her hand over top of Sam's and Dean's joined ones.

She could feel the connection between them, and it was more than just the binding ritual that had tied Dean's soul to Sam's. It was strong. Powerful.

Brotherhood.

Now she truly understood why Dean had sold his soul for Sam, and why Sam had risked Hell itself to save him.

Charlotte evened out her breathing, keeping it slow and steady, as she centered herself. Then she gathered the power inside of her and _reached_.

She was tugged toward Sam and Dean, their combined souls like a powerful magnetic field, drawing her in. She sought out Dean's soul, wrapping him in her power as she prepared to separate him from his brother.

She _pulled_ and was shocked by the resistance she felt. Like Sam was unwilling to let him go. Every time she pulled, Sam's soul resisted. Though, when she thought about it, she figured that Sam could not help but resist. He'd been guarding Dean's soul for an entire day, and, from what she understood, they'd been guarding each other their whole lives. To give Dean's soul over to someone else, even though he knew it must be done, had to be hard.

_Sam_, she thought, as she projected waves of calm. _Trust me. I'll take good care of him._

She felt Sam's resistance waver.

_Please, Sam. Let go._

Sam's resistance evaporated, and she pulled Dean to her. She didn't get any flashes of memory this time. Dean must have realized what had happened the first time she had touched him, and he was shielding her. In fact, he was shielding so well that she felt nothing from him. She could see him, but she couldn't feel him--not at all. Nothing escaped.

After all that she had seen before, she was amazed that he could hold that much in. He may not have the abilities that she had recognized in Sam, but Dean's soul had a power all its own. In his own way, he was special.

She gathered up his tattered, beautiful soul. Offering up a silent, wordless plea, she put Dean Winchester back where he belonged.

* * *

Dean's eyes shot open, and he sat bolt upright. The monitors beeped wildly as the leads attached to his body were torn away by the sudden action. Sam was immediately up and out of the chair, reaching out to steady him.

Struggling against both Sam and the equipment that had sustained him, Dean shrugged Sam off and reached up to yank out the respirator.

"No, don't!" Sam cried out, afraid that Dean would injure himself further, but Dean, being Dean, didn't listen. He yanked it out, gagging as the tube cleared his throat. He dropped the thing on the floor, chest heaving as his lungs struggled to work on their own again. He sat there for a few seconds, breathing in and out, eyes wild.

"Dean?" Sam asked hesitantly, looking for some kind of reassurance that his brother was indeed back where he belonged.

Dean's eyes cleared, and he turned his head to look at Sam. Those eyes were wide with astonishment, as if he couldn't really believe he was back in his own body. Then, without warning, Dean's face scrunched in pain and he hunched over, gasping.

Sam's head whipped around to look at Charlotte, alarmed eyes begging for some kind of answer. Charlotte shook her head and gave a little apologetic shrug. She didn't know any better than Sam what was going on. This was as new to her as it was to them.

Dean screamed through clenched teeth.

"Dean!" Sam shouted, hands moving jerkily, wanting to do something to help but not sure what. "Go get Doc Gaffney," he snapped to Charlotte, never taking his eyes from Dean. Biting her bottom lip, Charlotte nodded and hurried out of the room.

Dean's body began to convulse. Sam was about ready to run for Gaffney himself, when suddenly, everything stopped.

Dean just stopped.

He collapsed bonelessly, in a way that only unconscious or dead people can manage. Sam caught him as he fell backward, easing him back down onto bed. He reached forward, hands frantic as he felt for a pulse, a breath, anything, but there was nothing.

"No. No,no,no,no," Sam stammered, panicking. "Oh, God, please don't do this. Not now. _Jesus_, not now. _Dean_."

Sam turned toward the door, planning to yell at the top of his lungs for help, when a hand closed over his wrist. Sam's head whipped around, automatically staring down at his wrist. Dean's hand, silver ring glinting in the light from the lamp, circled his wrist in a weak grip.

Sam looked up and found Dean staring at him with tired, bloodshot eyes. When he spoke, his voice was raspy, yet it resonated throughout Sam's entire being.

"Death shall have no dominion."

"What did you say?" Sam whispered, shocked to hear those words come out of Dean's mouth--the words Sam had clung to like a lifeline as he tried to save his brother's soul from Hell.

Dean tugged gently on Sam's wrist, pulling his brother down closer. A ghost of a smile on his face, he reached up weakly and tapped Sam on his temple. "Learned… a few things… while I was in there, little brother."

With an inarticulate cry, Sam's legs gave out on him, and he collapsed into the chair. It all came crashing down on him. The desperation of the past year. The guilt over the deal Dean had made to save him. Hell. Everything he had buried or pushed aside because he never had the time to deal with it was finally released.

He'd done it. He'd gone into Hell and saved his brother's soul. He wouldn't have to face tomorrow alone.

Sam curled in on himself, bending over until his head rest on the mattress of Dean's bed. The tears he had never allowed himself finally fell.

* * *

Charlotte was a little out of breath, though more from the anxiety that gripped her than from exertion, as she'd only had to trek to the kitchen to find the doctor. She came to a skidding halt at the threshold to the library. At first, she thought the worst had happened. But then she saw Dean turn his head, saw his hand move, and she understood what was happening. She quickly turned and stopped the doctor and Bobby, who were hard upon her heels, from entering. This moment was for Sam and Dean.

* * *

Sam's sobs were muffled by the soft sheets of the bed. They briefly came to a hitching stop when he felt Dean's hand come to rest on the back of his head, offering comfort, just like he had when they were little kids.

"'S'okay, Sammy."

Those words, offered with the selfless conviction that was so essentially Dean, only made him cry harder. After everything he had been through, his brother was comforting _him_.

Sam knew that he should pull himself together and be there for Dean, but he couldn't. Not right now. Right now, all he wanted was to be a little brother again. He could fall apart, and take comfort in the fact that he had a big brother who knew how to pick up the pieces.

* * *

The next morning, Sam walked into the library to find Dean dressed and in the process of tying his boots. It was such a normal thing to do; it seemed so out of place, considering what his brother had just been through. Less than 48 hours ago, Dean had had his soul ripped from his body and dragged to Hell. Now he was tying his boots, just like any other day.

Earlier that morning, Doc Gaffney had given both Dean and Charlotte a clean bill of health, then wasted no time making his goodbyes. He announced he was off to someplace sunny and warm, where the biggest concern he might have was if he wanted his margarita with salt or sugar.

One of these days, Sam promised himself--when Ruby and Lilith and all of the other demons that had escaped through the Devil's Gate were sent back to Hell where they belonged--he'd drag Dean to a nice, warm beach, plop himself down, and refuse to budge until Dean experienced his first, real vacation.

It was an easy thing to promise, considering that day might never come.

"Hey," Sam said, pausing just inside the door as a wave of anxiety rolled over him. As much as he would like to think that today was just like any other day, it wasn't.

Dean glanced up a him, then looked back down as he finished tying his boots. "Hey."

Neither of them seemed to be able to come up with anything more than the simple greeting. The silence became uncomfortable, each waiting for the other to say something. Sam was hampered by his lingering embarrassment over turning into a complete girl last night. Dean was worried about all the questions he knew Sam would want to ask. They both would have preferred to forget the whole thing, yet how could they move forward without acknowledging what had come before?

Deciding he was going to avoid dangerous territory altogether, Sam finally thought of a way to breech the silence.

"So, uh, in all the commotion, I forgot to give you this." He reached around his neck and removed Dean's amulet, solemnly holding it out to his brother.

Dean slid off the bed. His face was sober as he slowly walked toward his brother, eyes drawn to his amulet. With a solemnity that matched Sam's, Dean reached out his hand to take it.

"Thanks, man," Dean said, avoiding eye contact, as he returned the amulet to its rightful place around his neck.

The uncomfortable silence returned as Dean packed up his duffel. He could practically feel Sammy's eyes boring into the back of his head. He knew what Charlotte had told Sam, about his soul being damaged. Personally, he didn't really want to think about it. In the words of the Allman Brothers, _what's done is done_. Unfortunately, Sam was practically bristling with a need to _fix_ him, so that was going to make not thinking about it a little difficult. It was going to make dealing with _Sam_ more than a little difficult, dammit, and that just wasn't right. They'd escaped from Hell. They should be celebrating, not dancing around some big damn white elephant that now stood in the room between them.

Bobby came in and saved him from trying to think of something to say.

"Dean," Bobby said, his voice a little horse as he tried to contain the emotions that hit him at the sight of the eldest Winchester, alive and well. He walked in and clapped a hand on Dean's shoulder. After a second, he thought, _Who cares if they think you've gone soft?_, and pulled Dean into a hug. "Good to see you up and around."

Dean closed his eyes. He wished he hadn't. An image flashed--rotting, zombified Sams wrapping their arms around him and dragging him down. He could swear that he could still taste the dirt in his mouth.

He cleared his throat and stepped back from the hug, trying to appear casual about it. "Good to _be_ up and around, Bobby."

The presence of a third, if not exactly impartial, party seemed to temporarily banish the white elephant from the room. Sam sidled over to stand next to Dean. Bobby looked at them, standing side by side. By all rights, they shouldn't even be there. One, or more likely both, of them should be burning in Hell. The odds stacked against them had been astronomical, and yet, somehow, they'd pulled it off.

"I tell you, boys, next time I head to Vegas, I'm draggin' the two of you with me as good luck charms."

Sam laughed and shook his head. "Don't know if you want our kind of luck, Bobby."

"I don't know," Dean said. "Sounds like a plan to me. How 'bout we go right now?"

Sam turned to face Dean, eyebrows shooting up. "Vegas? Now?" Not that he was against the idea, if it was what Dean really wanted, but it was kind of sudden, after everything that had happened.

Dean shrugged. "Sure. Why not? Come on, Sammy… girls and gambling? What's not to like?" Not to mention that Vegas would be a big help with his whole not-thinking-about-it plan.

Bobby raised his hands in a stop-right-there gesture. He should've known not to mention Vegas anywhere in the vicinity of Dean. "Hold up, now. You boys are marked men. You need to lay low. After what you done, you'll be on Hell's most wanted list. Ruby, Lilith, not to mention every demon from here to Hell and back'll be sniffing after ya like a bitch in heat."

Sam expected Dean to argue, but was surprise when Dean said, "Yeah. Guess you're right. I, for one, am seriously tired of being Hell's bitch."

"Why don't you fellas come up to my place? You could kick back, relax. Stay under the radar for a while."

Sam glanced sideways at Dean. He knew his brother better than anyone on the face of this earth, and relaxation was the last thing that Dean needed. As much as Sam would've liked to take Bobby up on his offer, what Dean needed right now was the familiarity of routine: the two of them, the car, the open road. In fact, Sam figured he needed it himself, right about now.

"Thanks, Bobby," Sam cut in before Dean could say anything, "but I was thinking we'd hit the road. Maybe catch a few simple cases. We've been ignoring a lot of those, lately."

Bobby was about to protest when he caught the flash of relief in Dean's eyes, quickly masked. Dean had been through Hell, literally. He was going to have issues that he'd have to work through, but, unlike Sam, Dean wasn't a talker. Not that Dean didn't talk--the boy could bend your ear off, if he had a mind to--but he didn't talk about himself. Dean's philosophy was more along the lines of exorcising personal demons through fist or gunfire or flame. It may not have been healthy, but, Hell, who was he to judge?

Bobby shrugged. "Yeah, I guess we've all been preoccupied a bit, past coupl'a months. You change your minds, though, or, God forbid, get your asses into trouble, you know where I'll be."

"Thanks, Bobby," Dean replied, the smile on his face never reaching his eyes. He turned around and crouched to fish something out from under the bed.

With Dean's back turned, Sam and Bobby shared a concerned look. Sam was so tense, Bobby was surprised his muscles didn't just snap right in half. He needed to calm down, or he wasn't going to be any help to his brother.

_Give him time_, Bobby mouthed silently. Sam nodded, and a shiver ran through him as he tried to force himself to relax.

Dean turned around and stood up, cardboard box full of precious cassettes in his hands. This time, the smile almost reached his eyes. "Don't want to forget these," he said, jiggling the contents.

* * *

Bobby, Sam, and Dean were in the living room, packing up the last of their gear--mainly spellbooks, ritual herbs and the like--when Clay Atherton appeared at the door. He stood stiffly on the threshold, hands clasped behind his back. He started to speak, then stopped himself and looked down at the floor, needing a minute to compose himself. He sighed, then cleared his throat.

"Look. I know I haven't exactly been the best of hosts…"

"Really?" Bobby drawled as he wrapped a particularly ancient text in protective cloth. "You don't say?" He hadn't forgotten that Atherton had threatened to throw all of them, including a comatose Dean, out on their collective ass.

Atherton pointedly ignored the jibe. "… and you probably have places to be…"

"We'll be out of your hair within the hour," Sam said, trying to remain civil--this was Charlotte's father, after all--but each word held a sharp bite.

Atherton closed his eyes, reminding himself to have patience. Their reaction to him was no fault but his own. When it came to his daughter's welfare, he knew he could be a bit obsessive. "… but Charlotte would like you to stay." He cleared his throat again. "_I _would like you to stay."

Dean shook his head. "That's nice and all, but we need to hit the road."

"_Please_," Atherton pleaded, taking a step toward them. "Just for another day. A meal and a good night's rest. It's important to her. She would have asked you herself, but she's in bed with a migraine."

"She okay?" Dean asked hesitantly, afraid of the answer. If she wasn't, it was his fault.

"She'll be fine. She just needs some rest. She tends to get bad headaches when she overexerts herself."

"Like she did for us," Sam said, sharing a look with Dean.

They stayed. Since Charlotte had pretty much saved both of their asses, no way could they refuse.

* * *

Dean was different.

He knew he was different, but he couldn't figure out what to do about it. He felt like a stranger in his own body, like his soul no longer fit the way it was supposed to fit. It made him quiet and moody, or, if he wanted to put it into perspective, it made him a lot like Sam, after Jessica had died. Which should have pissed him off, really, because Sam had sure pissed him off a lot back then with his whole mopey, gloom and doom thing.

But it didn't, because he was different.

He hadn't really noticed the difference when he'd been an extra passenger on the Sammy Express. It had been easy to ignore the realities of the situation when you were nothing but a disembodied spirit. Now that he was back in his own body, though, it had finally hit him that what had happened to him had been very, very real.

Hell had put his soul through the meat grinder. He'd made it out--intact, but not unscathed.

He found himself at Charlotte's bedroom door, though he couldn't consciously remember how he'd gotten there, didn't even remember asking where her bedroom was. He kept spacing out, constantly haunted by memories he would rather forget. He was probably freaking Sammy out, maybe even Bobby, but right now there wasn't much he could do about that either.

He knocked softly, almost hoping that she wouldn't answer. He was about to turn away when he heard a soft, "Come in," from behind the closed door.

He turned the knob and went in, carefully closing the door behind him. He took a single step toward her then stopped. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans because he was afraid that they might be shaking.

Charlotte was sitting up in her bed, propped by what looked to be about a dozen pillows. She set the photo album she been looking at down on the bed beside her, then nervously tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She'd never been too overly conscious of her looks, but there was something about this man that made her wish she hadn't been cursed with bad health, limp hair, pale skin, and a skinny body.

"Dean," she said, mentally cursing the slight quaver in her voice. He pretended not to notice; she could have fallen in love with him for that simple mercy.

His eyes darted around the room, unable to meet the intensity of her gaze. Charlotte was a soulwalker. She could _see_ him. Not the part he let the rest of the world, even Sam, see, but _him_. The ugly truth of him. It left him feeling raw and exposed.

Dean rocked nervously back on his heels. "Um. Hi."

Charlotte smiled a little. It was nice to know that she wasn't the only one that was nervous. "Hi."

"So… feeling better?"

"Yes. Thank you." She waited for him to say something else, but he didn't. He didn't seem to know what to say. She wasn't sure if _she_ would know what to say, either, if she'd been in his shoes. It wasn't every day that someone touched your soul. "It's nice to finally meet you, face to face," she said, hoping that would jar him out of his silence.

Dean's lips quirked slightly in an embarrassed half-smile. "Yeah. Uh… sorry about that. I should've come sooner."

She hadn't meant is as an accusation, and was surprised that he had taken it as such. "That's okay. I don't mind."

Dean nodded and ducked his head, contemplating his boots. Neither of them could think of anything else to say, and the silence stretched to uncomfortable levels until Dean finally looked up and blurted, "I wanted to thank you. What you did, for Sam and me… it took a lot of guts."

Charlotte reddened, and now she was the one that had to look away. "Anyone would've done the same."

Dean took a step closer, eyes boring into her now, as if he was trying to figure her out, to see what made her tick. "No. They wouldn't."

Charlotte's flush deepened, the color contrasting drastically with her pale skin. Dean knew he was making her uncomfortable, that he should probably leave her alone, but he couldn't seem to stop himself.

"Why'd you do it?" he asked, the words soft but intense. "Why'd you risk yourself for me? You don't even know me." She could hear the unspoken question: _Why am I worth saving?_

"Your brother does," Charlotte said simply, looking back up at Dean. She could see how much he was hurting. He didn't know how to let go of what had happened, but he didn't know how to deal with it, either. She only hoped that, given time and Sam's help, that hurt would fade. "The way he talked about you…" She hesitated here, not sure of how much she should say, how much she should leave for Sam to say. "He was very convincing."

"He didn't hold a gun to your head, did he?" Dean asked, only half-joking.

Charlotte gave a weak laugh. "Maybe for a minute."

Dean's eyes widened at this, and she shook her head, dismissing the importance of the incident in her decision. Sam had convinced her to help them, but the _how_ of it wasn't really what Dean cared about. It was the _why_, and the why of it was surprisingly simple. She locked her eyes with his, willing him to see the truth in her words.

"He just made me believe that the world would be a better place with you in it."

Dean ducked his head and fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, embarrassed by the clear admiration in her words. A reluctant hero.

Charlotte smiled.

* * *

It was getting late.

Sam wandered around the house, looking for Dean. They should have been halfway across the country by now, but Charlotte had asked them to stay. It was the least they could do for her.

At dinner, his brother had mainly contributed to several uncomfortable silences, and then quietly disappeared, slipping off into the depths of the big house. Sam had given him two hours--and only that long because Bobby had convinced him to give Dean more time--then he went looking.

Dean had been avoiding him. Avoiding _everybody_, which made Sam uneasy, because it was so very not Dean.

He found him on the second floor, out on the rear balcony. Somehow, Sam knew that was where Dean would be, though he wasn't sure why he knew. His brother's arms rest heavily on the rail, holding on to a bottle of beer that he didn't seem to be drinking. There was a six pack on the floor beside his feet, but five bottles still remained in the cardboard carrier. A steady rain had begun to fall, making everything seem quieter, muted. Dean stared out into the rain, as quiet and as still as the world around him.

Sam approached his brother warily, not really sure how to deal with this quieter, introspective version of his brother. He reached down and grabbed a beer from the six pack sitting next to Dean, not because he really wanted it, but because he felt he needed to do something with his hands. "You okay?" he asked softly, twisting off the bottle cap as he turned to sit on the railing, back to the rain.

Dean didn't look at him, and, for a while, he didn't answer. There was a faraway, haunted look in his brother's eyes, one that made Sam desperately wish that he'd found another way, that he could have stopped Dean from going to Hell. Sam was terribly afraid that his solution, though successful, had broken something inside of Dean. Something that might never be fixed.

Finally, Dean sighed, then took a sip of his beer. He looked down, unable to meet Sam's eyes when he quietly responded, "Will be."

Sam nodded, unable to respond in words as his throat closed on him. He wasn't really sure how to take those two words. _Will be_. They held the promise of a future where Dean _would_ be okay, but also were an admission that, right now, he was not. For Dean to admit that, he was more _not okay_ than Sam knew how to deal with.

Dean could feel the tension radiating from his brother, and he knew that it was his fault. He probably should've done his usual big brother thing, told Sam that he was fine, but he couldn't bring himself to utter the lie. Sammy had braved Hell itself to save him, and he deserved more than a lie.

The thought of what his little brother had done for him, what he had risked, made his thoughts turn in a darker direction.

"That was a really stupid, dangerous thing you did, Sam."

Sam blinked. He hadn't been prepared for that. After all, hadn't they been over this territory before? He opened his mouth, immediately wanting to go on the defensive, but then stopped himself. He didn't want to fight with Dean. Not today.

Besides, Dean had a point. What he had done was quite possibly stupid (_If going to Hell on purpose wasn't stupid, what was?_) and most definitely dangerous. But it had been necessary.

Sam turned around and leaned his arms on the balcony rail, mirroring Dean. "Maybe if my brother would quit doing stupid, dangerous things like selling his soul, I wouldn't have to be stupid and dangerous to save his ass."

Dean smirked. It was the first time Sam had seen him do that since he'd been back in own body, and Sam had to look away as emotion threatened to overtake him. That smirk--so very much a part of what made Dean _Dean_--did more for him than a hundred smiles could. It made him think that, given enough time and patience, everything could be fixed.

Once Sam felt he had regained enough control over himself, he turned back to look at his brother. He started to speak, but the words wouldn't come, and he had to clear his throat before any sound would come out.

"How about we make a deal? I promise not to die again, and you promise not to sell your soul and go to Hell?"

Dean finally turned to look at him, and that smirk was still kind of there, letting Sam know that Dean hadn't been lying when he'd said that he wasn't all right, but he would be.

Dean held out his half-empty beer bottle towards Sam. "Sounds like a plan, brother."

Sam smiled, and then clinked his own bottle lightly against Dean's.

They stayed there in comfortable silence, leaning against the balcony rail, drinking beer and watching the rain. For the moment, they weren't hunters, or fugitives from justice, or even Winchesters. They were just brothers.

"Sam."

Sam turned his head to look at Dean as his brother broke the long silence. There seemed to be a million things Dean wanted to say, too much to deal with all at once, so he whittled it down to what was important. "Thanks. For saving me."

Sam looked down, his smile crooked and kind of embarrassed. He wasn't used to Dean looking at him like _he_ was the hero. When he could finally raise his head to meet Dean's gaze, there was a slight flush on his cheeks. "Just returning the favor."

Dean nodded, then turned to look back out at the rain. "This past year… " Dean shook his head and trailed off.

So many bad things had happened to them. It had been a year that began with Sam's death and had ended with his own. A year that had seen them to Hell and back, figuratively and literally. They should have been rotting corpses or piles of salted and burnt ash; yet here they were, side by side, having a beer. It was almost hard to believe.

Dean turned to look at Sam. "We've been given a second chance, Sammy," he said, almost wistfully.

"Yeah. I guess we have."

Dean straightened. He held out his hand to his brother, offering a deal of his own. "Let's not blow it."

Sam's smile widened. They had no home, no steady girlfriends, no paying jobs. A pair of squabbling demon bitches were out for their blood, not to mention the rest of the demon army. They'd even managed to piss off Hell itself.

The road ahead was rough, but it was a road that neither one of them would have to travel alone.

Sam reached out and firmly grasped his brother's hand to seal the bargain.

"Deal."

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A/N: Epilogue to follow.


	11. Epilogue

No Dominion

By Inzane

Disclaimer: I lay no claim to Supernatural or its characters.

Summary: After a year of increasingly desperate research, Sam finally accepts that there is no way to break Dean's deal. But that doesn't mean he's giving up.

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Epilogue

Sam leaned against the car with his arms crossed over his chest, waiting for Dean. He'd already filled up the Impala, deliberately ignoring the rapidly spinning numbers on the old-style pump as he filled her up. There was no point in worrying about the completely ridiculous price of gas because a) Dean would kill him if he even hinted at throwing his baby over for a more environmentally sound, gas-efficient car, and b) it's not like they were paying for the gas, anyway, thanks to their stash of phony credit cards, so it didn't really matter.

By unspoken agreement, the Winchester brothers had decided to leave the demons alone for a while. Stay under the radar, as Bobby had suggested. But that didn't have to mean staying in one place. Dean needed the distraction, and, frankly, Sam wouldn't mind one himself. He hadn't spent as much time in Hell as Dean had, but what time he had had deeply disturbed him.

They were off to take care of a ghost outside of Charleston. It should be a standard salt and burn, but, of course, Sam had learned the hard way that nothing was standard for a Winchester. Expecting the unexpected had long ago become a way of life.

Dean was inside the small mini mart, getting some snacks for the road. He should've been back about ten minutes ago. Sam tried not to worry. His brother was a grown man and very capable of taking care of himself. He also knew to call for backup when he needed it.

Sam was sure there was a mundane reason for the delay. The clerk was probably some pretty girl that Dean was regaling with harmless lies while he checked her out; knowing Dean, he'd probably get her to give him her number without even asking for it. Sometimes, Sam didn't know how he did it.

Of course, he'd checked the EMF meter, just in case.

He was wary of letting Dean out of his sight, much like he'd been after the Trickster had put him through that damned time loop. He couldn't shake the feeling that he had to be there, every moment, in case something happened. Dean didn't like to be crowded, though, so he'd compromised and let Dean go in by himself--more like backed down after his brother had glared at him and insisted that Sam quit mother-henning him, but he liked to think of it as a compromise.

Sam felt different, since Hell.

It wasn't just the rediscovery of his powers, though that was pretty high up there on the list. Coming to the realization that you weren't some demon-spawned freak could definitely change your world view. He planned to explore his natural abilities out in the real world at some point, after things got back to normal… well, normal for them, anyway. There was no rush. Right now, his main concern was Dean.

Once Dean's soul had been transferred back into his own body, Sam felt as if something inside of him had changed, like some essential part of himself had been altered on the molecular level. He was different, but it wasn't bad different, just kind of… weird different. As if he wasn't weird enough already.

He seemed to have developed a sort of Dean radar--kind of an internal tug toward his brother. It was disconcerting at times, almost like he was in two places at once. He could tell where Dean was in a room, without even looking. The feeling was so strong at times, Sam was pretty sure that if they were separated, he could have found his brother with his eyes closed. It made it easier to let Dean out of his sight, knowing that he wouldn't need to see him to find him.

Sam wondered if Dean felt the same. He thought so; he'd caught Dean a couple of times giving him this look, like he was trying to figure something out. It could have been residual effects of the binding spell they'd done in Hell, but Sam didn't think so. He thought... maybe it was silly, but he believed that, somehow, a piece of his own soul now rest within Dean, and piece of Dean's soul had remained with him.

He kept this theory to himself. Dean would probably laugh his ass off if he told him about it, accuse him of being all touchy feely. No way was he dealing with Dr. Phil jokes for the next hundred miles.

Dean finally came out of the mini mart, a broad smile on his face. Sam could have gone right in there and kissed whatever pretty girl had put that smile on his brother's face. It was worth the wait.

As Dean walked back to the car, Sam rubbed his hand absently over his over his chest as something inside him shifted, eased. Like recognizing like. He was pretty sure his theory was right, that they each had become guardian to small piece of each other's souls.

Maybe that was the way it was supposed to be.

"You ready?" Dean asked, tossing Sam a candy bar, which he deftly snatched out of the air.

Was he ready? Ready for bad food and bad motels and bumpy back roads? Ready for late night grave digging and early morning exorcisms? Ready to be a different person in each town, and anyone but himself? Ready to face Ruby and Lilith and all the bad things that would surely be coming for them?

Sam gave his brother a crooked smile. "Absolutely."

They'd faced the horrors of Hell and made it out alive. As long as he had his brother there, fighting by his side, he was ready for anything.

Ten minutes later, they pulled out onto the highway with a tank full of gas and bellies full of sugar. Sam didn't even complain when Dean slipped his Led Zeppelin cassette into the player and gave the volume knob a hard twist to the right.

The road ahead was smooth and clear, with not a cloud on the horizon. It wouldn't stay that way. They both knew that they were marked men--that the hunters had become the hunted--but right now, that didn't matter. For now, they had the open road and the clear, blue sky, and all was right with the world.

The End

November 2008

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A/N: Reviews are love.

For those of you who are interested… My next big project is a sequel to my Dark Angel fic "The Friggin' Cure." Before I start that, I plan to do a few DA oneshots to reboot and clear my head of all the Supernatural angst. SPN angst is a lot darker (okay, bloodier) than my normal flavor of angst.


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